


Halfway to Hell is a Long Way from Heaven

by cywscross



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blind Character, Bottom Peter Hale, Dark, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Fallen Angel Stiles Stilinski, Light Bondage, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostate Massage, Stockholm Syndrome, Subspace, Supernatural Elements, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8385235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: Peter offers to bite Stiles that night in the parking lot. To mark. To brand.  To claim.Stiles just laughs at him.On hindsight, it was pretty laughable, in a terrifying skin-of-the-teeth sort of way, and on occasion, Peter still regrets ever opening his mouth with that particular question. Mostly though, he’s content, even happy, and that might be Stockholm Syndrome speaking, or even his mortal mind buckling under the relentless weight of Stiles’ desires, but either way, if he gets to live and live well under the protection (possession) of an eternal, immortal being, what does anything else matter?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've signed up for NaNoWriMo this year, and I've decided to use this plot for my fic, so there won't be another update until the end of November, but hopefully, I'll have a completed fic to show for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the outcome of functioning on too much caffeine and three hours of sleep for the past week while studying for midterms and bullshitting all my essays. I don’t even know anymore. Apparently, my brain likes to try new things when it’s living on fumes. Tell me if you laugh at the explicit bits. I swear I will take it down.
> 
> Also read the tags. I feel like this isn’t your regularly scheduled dose of angst and fluff from me.

 

“What would have happened,” Peter wonders idly, not for the first time, but the first time out loud.  “If I had bitten you that night?”

From above, eyes that are just a little too bronzed to pass for human flick a brief amused look at him.  “Probably nothing.  I wouldn’t know.  Can’t say I’ve ever heard of any werewolf getting the drop on one of my kind.”

“…What if you’d accepted?”

More amusement.  Peter shrugs as nonchalantly as he can manage.  It’s surprisingly difficult, considering how easily lies used to come to him, still do, but not when it’s Stiles on the receiving end.

“I did _offer_ ,” Peter mutters, wincing when his voice comes out more petulant than he expects.

This time, Stiles huffs a laugh, and his head dips until hot breath grazes Peter’s temple and a cool hand curls around the back of his neck.  Peter shudders.

“You did,” Stiles agrees in a low murmur.  “But a claim is still a claim, and I couldn’t have you running around thinking you can just do that, little wolf.”

A soft placating noise scratches unbidden at the back of Peter’s throat.  It isn’t quite fear that knots in his gut but he still feels the phantom pulse of the mark that’s been seared along the join of his neck and shoulder, right where Stiles’ thumb is casually resting this very moment, and he doesn’t – can’t – relax until he hears Stiles chuckle, light and unoffended.

“Probably nothing,” Stiles repeats, and his lips curve into a sharp smile.  “You can’t change what is forever on such a fundamental level, Peter, and my kind is forever.  Even the forsaken ones.”  His smile widens.  “Well, unless you find a way to kill us.  But you like me too much to try anything like that, right?”

Peter snorts wryly, but despite being more aware of the hand at his neck than ever, his answer is honest.  “Well, of course, Stiles.  I suspect my life would be much duller without you.”

Stiles hums, pleased as he settles once more against the arm of the couch he’s sprawled on.  When he goes back to reading his book, he doesn’t retrieve his hand, and Peter finds himself leaning into the touch, content to pillow his head against Stiles’ thigh and doze off.  They spent the majority of last night and the entire morning eviscerating a nest of vampires preying on the local children, and Stiles may not need sleep but Peter’s tired enough for both of them because while Stiles could certainly have killed all those vampires himself in seconds, he also likes letting Peter off his leash when the situation allows it, and Peter always enjoys a good hunt, even if particularly difficult ones leave him satisfied but wanting a hot shower, a warm meal, and at least a few solid hours of uninterrupted slumber.

He’s gotten the shower and the meal; now he just wants some sleep, and carpeted floors are more comfortable than you’d think, especially when Stiles made them fluffy the moment they first checked into this suite for the week.

Which does make sense.  All-powerful beings are probably fairly attached to their creature comforts.  Unless you’re Lucifer and/or in Hell of course.  Stiles doesn’t like talking about that very much.  All he’s said about it – and from what little Peter’s managed to piece together himself – is that he was one of the ones who Fell with Lucifer but eventually – _and how long is eventually to an angel?_ – clawed his way back out and has been living on earth ever since.

Peter doesn’t ask.  He doesn’t mind either; he appreciates Egyptian cotton bedsheets and plush leather car seats just as much as the next person, and he’s gotten used to living in luxury over the past few years when he isn’t knee-deep in the blood and bodies of their latest case.  He still doesn’t understand why Stiles is so attached to those atrocious flannel shirts though, when he can magick up literally any piece of clothing that ever existed and then some.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Peter gets a gentle squeeze to his nape for that thought, just for a moment, and he doesn’t have to look to know that Stiles is rolling his eyes.  Just because Peter has _fashion sense_.  But it also serves to derail his brain from its exhausted random musing, and he releases a soft sigh instead, slumping more heavily against the couch, thoughts already drifting.

Stiles’ hand is both a reassuring and uncompromising reminder on the back of his neck, and by now, Peter is used to it.  Expects it.  Almost craves it sometimes.

He’s asleep within minutes.

 

* * *

 

These days, they move around a lot, travelling wherever their jobs take them despite the house Stiles has in Northern Italy (and probably quite a few other places as well, but the Italy house seems to be his favourite so that’s where the majority of Peter’s belongings are now).  Stiles, Peter discovers, has a knack for showing up where he’s needed.  Or rather, he shows up where chaos and evil can be found.  Peter still hasn’t figured out yet if that’s a fallen angel thing or a Stiles-specific thing, but either way, Stiles never fails to cross paths with some of the most dangerous, despicable creatures Peter’s ever met in his life.

Sometimes they work for money, sometimes they don’t.  it isn’t as if it matters one way or the other to Stiles.  Peter's wondered – just once – why a _fallen_ angel would go out of their way to perform heroics across the globe.  Stiles fished that thought right out of his head, and that very same night, Peter blacked out from the dual sensations of Stiles’ hand wrapped tight around his throat and another working at his cock, wringing a third shattering orgasm from him just as his airway was cut off completely, pain and pleasure crashing together in flashing black and white before his mind shut down and blissful oblivion dragged him under.  When he woke up, warm and clean but with heavy limbs and a dick that felt too sensitive even just against the soft breeze fluttering in through the open window, Stiles was there, smiling at him from a deceptively youthful face, all that darkness tucked away save for the savage ancient fire in his eyes that burns if you look too long.

Peter only had enough energy to drink a bit of water when Stiles pressed the glass to his lips before rolling onto his side, head lolling into Stiles’ bare hip, asleep again within seconds with Stiles’ fingers tangled in his hair.

(He still isn’t sure if that was punishment or just Stiles wanting to dominate him again, because honestly, the angel does the latter pretty regularly, and Peter’s learned to love Stiles’ hand at his throat, holding him down, pushing him past his limits.  Even more, he loves being taken care of afterwards, and Stiles is always good about that too.

Still, he isn’t stupid, and he never makes the mistake of thinking about Stiles in connection with heroes ever again, even if the gratitude they get for it from time to time when Stiles deigns to make an appearance to the victims or the local ruling power says otherwise.

He doesn’t know why Stiles Fell because the angel doesn’t strike him as the type to blindly follow someone into a war, into Hell, even if that someone was an archangel, but Peter suspects it probably has something to do with why Stiles seems to hate certain things, like churches and blind faith and the first light at dawn.)

Peter doesn’t mind his new lifestyle.  He even enjoys it, because sometimes they come across creatures that he’s never even heard of, and Stiles never just tells him about them, which means research, which means rare books, which means hunting down dusty tomes and cursed grimoires in magical bookshops tucked away from oblivious eyes, and _that_ is something Peter’s always had fun doing.  Even better, Talia never appreciated his efforts the way Stiles does when he brings back a hard-earned text or talisman or genuine artifact, and Peter’s made it his personal mission to try and surprise Stiles with something that even the age-old seraph has never heard of or seen before.

He’s succeeded twice over the past three years.

The rest of the time, when they aren’t tracking down a headless horseman or dealing with a flock of Stymphalian birds, they travel just because.  Stiles almost always lets Peter pick where they go, and in turn, Stiles shows him hidden magical cities buried deep underground or interconnected sasquatch villages deep in the mountains that Peter’s never even suspected could exist.

It’s not the life he thought he would ever have, but he can admit it’s infinitely more interesting, even if he does wonder from time to time whether the angel – who has had him marked and collared since that fateful night in the parking garage when Stiles put him on his knees for inadvertently daring to think he could claim a seraph as his own – considers him more toy or pet or man.  Or perhaps to an angel, especially one who walked away from heaven, all three are synonymous to each other.

It doesn’t really matter in the end, and Peter wonders less and less about it with each passing day.  Doesn’t bother wasting time on maybes when there are other things to occupy him and a fallen angel to tempt him into all sorts of trouble.  Not that Peter’s ever needed much tempting in that regard of course.

It’s a decent life overall.  His sanity’s intact again, and he’s even still Alpha, even if that doesn’t really mean much when compared to Stiles.  But he’s faster and stronger than he’s ever been before, and he suspects that has more to do with Stiles’ interference than Alpha status alone.  It’s probably better than any life he could’ve led back in Beacon Hills, with a nephew who accidentally got most of their entire family killed and hated Peter for killing Laura.  With a bumbling beta who didn’t have a clue what he was doing and refused to seek out actual help in favour of getting his dick wet in yet another Argent.  With far too many hunters out for blood.

It’s better with Stiles, travelling the world.  Stiles holds his leash, undoubtedly, but he also lets Peter run and hunt and live however he wants so long as he remains _Stiles’_ , and that’s a kind of freedom in and of itself, one that Peter was never allowed to have under Talia’s domineering leadership, where he was always never anything more than left hand and too much and not enough.

He’s enough for Stiles though, Peter thinks, if only because once, when they visit an old acquaintance of Stiles’, a dark-skinned man with black eyes and no sclera who remarked, “A companion?  You’ve never wanted one before.”, and Peter had to try very hard not to preen, surprised and horribly, terribly thrilled both.  That was probably the moment he realized there was no going back from Stiles.  No leaving, even if Stiles ever lets him go.

He resents that less than he thought he would.  Less than he used to, however much Stiles also fascinated him even back then, at the beginning.  He’s alive and healthy and undeniably happier than he was for the six years he was left to rot by his own niece and nephew, arguably even happier than he was when he had Pack, a family, but not really, not when he had to fight for every scrap of grudging respect and leftover love they ever deigned to spare for him.

With Stiles, well, perhaps Peter’s no better than a toy or pet or man, but Stiles also likes him exactly the way he is, took him because Peter tried to lay claim to what wasn’t his, but _kept_ him because Stiles wanted him, still wants him even now, and there are certainly worse things in life than a possessive fallen angel branded on his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

“We’re going to Beacon Hills,” Stiles announces one morning over breakfast.

Peter blinks up from the newspaper he was browsing.  The dead body of that darach he and Stiles got rid of yesterday has been found and has made front-page news.  They would’ve buried the body but the man was a well-respected, upstanding citizen of this town, and it would’ve been more suspicious if he went missing entirely.  So, victim of a wild animal attack on his daily jog, poor guy.

He carefully folds up the newspaper before replying.  “I didn’t think we would be returning so soon.  Or even at all.”

It’s been almost four years since Peter last stepped foot in his old hometown.  Honestly, he has no real desire to go back.  Any attachment he had to the place has long since burned up along with his family.

“Normally, we wouldn’t; I don’t really revisit places within a decade, it gets boring that way,” Stiles agrees, leaning back in his seat so that the sunlight cuts through him and throws his shadow across the kitchen floor.

Peter can’t help looking, gaze drawn to the arching black of six giant wings splashed across mahogany.

“But,” Stiles continues, and when Peter glances up again, the angel is smiling again, an odd mix of indulgence and bitterness twisted across his lips.  “Beacon Hills is… louder than most.  Whines about its problems like a five-year-old toddler, and usually I can ignore it, but it’s been whining extra loud lately so we’d best go see what’s upsetting it before I decide raining fire and brimstone down on it is the way to go.”

He pauses, head cocking in a distinctly non-human manner.  “Do you mind?”

Peter quirks an ironic smirk.  “Does it matter one way or the other?”

Stiles laughs softly, and then he’s reaching out and hooking two fingers into Peter’s shirt.  He barely has to tug before Peter is going, heartbeat already picking up speed as Stiles manoeuvres him around until he’s straddling the angel’s lap, pale hands framing his hips like they couldn’t crush him on a whim.  Like this, Peter has about half a head on Stiles but they both know which of them is in control.

“’Course it matters, Peter,” Stiles smiles up at him, bronze eyes glinting with unearthly flame.  “You can do whatever you want, think whatever you want.  I like you _because_ you’re opinionated, you know.  Just-”

“-don’t forget I’m yours,” Peter finishes, as much resigned to it as he is to wanting nothing more.  “Well, how could I?”

Because he is Stiles’, as much as water is wet and the sun is hot, no two ways about it.

He gets a glimpse of Stiles’ smile sharpening with dark approval before a hand is on the back of his neck, and lips are on his, and Peter submits with a moan as Stiles takes his mouth with tongue and teeth and a silent all-encompassing demand.

There’s something about kisses with Stiles that seems to sear a little, each one burning itself onto Peter’s lips and tongue like a reminder of who he belongs to.  As if he could ever forget.  But they’re drugging too, the kisses, intoxicating in a way that always leaves Peter wanting more, and this time’s no different.  By the time Stiles lets him pull back for a decent lungful of air, Peter’s breathing hard because he still needs oxygen even if Stiles doesn’t.  He’s also achingly hard in his jeans, hips rolling down in an attempt to get some friction against Stiles’ own cock, his wolf simmering under his skin.

Stiles never minds being scented so Peter takes every opportunity he gets to do it, pressing cheek to cheek, nuzzling along the curve of Stiles’ jaw and down the length of his neck.  He knows better than to bite though.

Stiles hums, pleasure and something wicked permeating the sound.  A hand drops to palm Peter through his jeans, grinding with just enough pressure to make Peter jerk and hiss out a curse because Stiles knows exactly how to play his body and make it dance to his tune.

Stiles lets him rut – sometimes he doesn’t, doesn’t even let him come until much later – but Peter gets to this time, and he loses himself in it, in the strange-familiar scent Stiles always wears, in the heat of Stiles’ hand at his nape, riding the pleasure as it rushes through his body, smothering choked off whimpers against Stiles’ throat.

“Come on, Peter,” Stiles murmurs into his ear, all coaxing midnight velvet even as his thumb starts rubbing circles at the head of Peter’s cock through his jeans, and it _chafes_ , but it’s so _good_ too, and it tears a full-throated cry from Peter’s throat.  “Come on, I want to see it, you always come so beautifully, Peter, _my_ wolf, mine, so you’ll do what I say, won’t you?  And I’m saying _come now, Peter_.”

Stiles’ true voice roars in his ears, just for a moment, let loose just a bit; otherwise Peter’s eardrums would have melted.  He isn’t sure he would’ve cared though, because he loves it, loves that waterfall of purring sin in his ears that never fails to heighten his pleasure, underscored by a delicious edge of pain that skitters over his nerves like electricity, and then teeth scrape along the mark on his shoulder before they bite down hard, and that’s it.  Peter’s vision whites out, and he shakes through his orgasm with only Stiles’ hand at his neck and his own hands curled around Stiles’ shoulders to anchor him even as he falls apart, gasping blindly as he collapses against Stiles’ chest.

He comes back to himself minutes later to gentle kisses being brushed over his lips, and he’s responding weakly to them even before his brain catches up.

“Gorgeous,” Stiles whispers like a secret, and for the first time, there’s something more than fondness in his voice, something bordering reverence in a way that makes Peter want to stay like this forever.  “My gorgeous broken wolf.”

Peter mumbles a wordless hazy acknowledgement as he slumps against the angel, instinct baring his throat even now.  Stiles’ hand doesn’t leave his neck, and Peter is glad.

“…I reserve the right to throw Derek through at least one wall if he comes at me,” Peter eventually mutters.  His pants are getting tacky but he can’t bring himself to care quite yet.  He gives a brief consideration for Stiles’ erection, but he’s familiar enough with the angel by now to know that if Stiles wants to get off, he’s certainly not going to be shy about it.

Stiles just laughs again and presses an affectionate kiss into Peter’s hair.  “Whatever you want, Peter.”

 

* * *

 

They pack their bags, swing by the closest diner to pick up curly fries for Stiles (apparently Grace-conjured curly fries just aren’t the same), and then they’re driving cross-country, crossing state lines every few days because Stiles says there’s no rush, and Peter paid for his lovely convertible; short of an emergency, he isn’t about to leave it to gather dust while Stiles teleports them all over the world.

They still reach California within a week, Beacon Hills within half a day after that.  The _Welcome to Beacon Hills!_ sign – obliviously cheerful – hasn’t changed, much to Peter’s morbid amusement.  If people only knew what goes on in this town.

Peter’s wondered, of course, if anyone he knows is still alive.  Omega werewolves aren’t exactly known for their longevity, but Scott McCall made it plenty clear that he didn’t want an Alpha, didn’t even want Pack, and when it comes down to it, it isn’t as if Peter ever cared all that much about the boy.  He bit him by accident that night, high on the power of an Alpha and still half-mad with rage and grief, but he did his best to do right by his unintentional beta with what little sanity he could still pull together.  Scott rejected him though, and Peter can’t even really say he can blame the boy for that.  But that also means that the kid has long since stopped being his responsibility, especially when Scott was forever refusing to listen to reason when it came to the Argents, and not even just from Peter but from Derek too.  The boy thought he knew better; Peter wonders if it’s bitten him in the ass yet.

There’s also Derek to think about.  His idiot nephew who’s never made a smart decision of his own in his entire life, too gullible, too indecisive, more than a little bit of a romantic at heart, and still so much a scared little child even though the last time Peter saw him he was a man grown.

Peter wonders if Derek’s left.   Gone back to wherever he and Laura ran off to after the fire, or maybe just left for something new and away from Beacon Hills.  If he has any sense of self-preservation, he would have, but then, since when has Derek ever possessed any of that?

Just as likely, Derek could be dead.  There were still Argents in town, before Peter left with Stiles, and they do so love to preach their precious Code while simultaneously coming up with as many new ways as they can to break it.

But most of all, Peter considers his own feelings on the matter, and all he can really dredge up is a bored indifference towards Scott, and a bitter, detached sort of curiosity towards his nephew’s fate.  He wouldn’t mind seeing the rest of the Argents all dead though.

But Derek cut ties with him a long time ago.  Scott never had much of a tie to him to begin with.  And Peter has Stiles now, and honestly, that’s all he really needs these days.

“If it’s going to be a problem, or you just don’t want to see them,” Stiles interrupts his thoughts from the passenger seat, although when Peter glances over, the angel simply levels a knowing look at him.  “You could drop me off, and I’ll find you again later once I’ve wrapped up business here.”

Something clenches in Peter’s chest, something uncomfortably like panic.

( _What if Stiles finds someone else more interesting than Peter?  What if Stiles doesn’t come back for him?  What if Stiles won’t want to keep him anymore?_ )

“No,” He says, and he has the clear his throat in an attempt to wrestle down the note of desperation that roughens up his voice.  “No, that’s- Really, Stiles, I’m sure we’ll see some familiar faces but I hardly care about most of them, and… my family, what was left of them, they betrayed me first.  They took away what little I had left that at the very least could’ve helped me heal faster.  I’m not letting them take away anything else.”

 _You_ , he doesn’t say, because he meant to imply letting Derek chase him away from Beacon Hills before he even puts one foot into town, or even letting his wariness of the Argents get the better of him, but it doesn’t quite come out that way, and of course, Stiles hears what he means and grins at him, bright and boyish.

“Aw, come on, Peter, you know no one else can compare.”

The thing is though, Peter _doesn’t_ know.  He overstepped his bounds, when he wanted Stiles for himself, however unknowingly, and he paid for it, but for all that the angel has kept him since then, wanted him enough to keep him, Peter isn’t entirely sure _why_ Stiles wants him in the first place, because surely Stiles has liked other mortals before?  Favoured them at least?  It’s the sort of unsteady ground Peter hates standing on, because it means one day Stiles will lose interest, move on to the next thing that catches his eye, and Peter will be left behind.

“Hey.”  A hand wraps around his throat, not tight enough to prevent him from breathing but still tight enough to feel, and Peter is already pressing into the grip, eyelids fluttering to half-mast even as he almost swerves them right off the road.  The car rights itself and continues gliding forward though so Stiles has probably taken over.

“Hey,” Stiles repeats, and his eyes are rings of bronze-amber-gold in his face, something inhuman and eternal slipping into his features, lovely and cruel in turn, like marble given life.  “You are mine, Peter Hale.  I thought I made that clear.  No one else is allowed to have you.”  Fingers dig into his neck.  “And I can’t make sure nobody does if I leave you somewhere for just anyone to pick up, right?”

Stiles’ grip loosens, and his hand moves to smooth over the mark now glowing dimly under Stiles’ touch, even through the fabric of Peter’s shirt.

“Mine,” Stiles says once more with the straightforward simplicity of cold hard fact, and Peter swallows and nods with something a lot like relief.

“Yours.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you laugh? Give it to me straight. I know full well I have zero experience writing any kind of porn.
> 
> That being said, I now have some semblance of a plot for this. I was going to stick this prologue-y bit with my Steter Drabbles and just leave it as is but I couldn’t bring myself to because I feel like this is just so different from everything else I’ve ever written, and it just wouldn’t really fit, even in a random drabble collection.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is... frankly nowhere near complete. Seriously, holy shit, if I actually manage to finish this thing from beginning to end the way I have it planned (and I actually do have this thing plotted out on paper for once), it will be huge, and I will be amazed. But anyway, if you followed my meltdowns on tumblr during Nano month, you'll know I didn't finish the required 50k words but I did get a few more chapters of this fic written. I thought about not posting anything more until I finish the whole fic, and I probably won't post another chapter again after this, at least for a while, but I also want to get at least one last thing out before 2016 is over, so here's chapter 2, and I hope you enjoy.

 

When Derek first sees them, he thinks he has to be hallucinating.  He’s walking back from the drugstore, bag in hand, and he’s just turning a corner when movement from the IHOP across the street catches his eye.  There’s no particular reason for it, no sudden familiar sound or smell that prompts him to glance that way, just movement through one of the glass windows that flickers in his peripheral vision and briefly draws his disinterested attention away from the washed out sidewalk stretching out in front of him and the sparse trundle of traffic on his right.  The gloomy overcast skies above make everything look bleaker so the stores compensate by cranking up the lights.

He actually doesn’t even recognize them at first.  They’re just two people, probably sitting down for a late lunch, and he’s already moving on down the sidewalk without sparing them a second thought, more concerned with trying to figure out which restaurant he hasn’t ordered takeout from recently, if only so he can produce something relatively new for Cora to eat tonight.  Her appetite’s taken a nosedive again, and Derek doesn’t know what to do besides wait it out as always.

It takes him five more steps before his subconscious makes the connection, and recognition abruptly hits him like a sledgehammer and turns him into stone right where he’s standing.  Then he almost gives himself whiplash when he snaps his head around, staring wildly at the IHOP, torn between shock and disbelief.

There’s just no way.  It can’t be-

But it _is_.  That’s definitely _his uncle Peter_ sitting in the booth, dressed in a light coat, with shorter hair than Derek remembers from the last time they saw each other.  He’s reading a menu and chatting with the person sitting across from him like it’s completely normal to be back in Beacon Hills almost four years after killing Kate, doing normal people things as if this town isn’t a goddamn hellmouth, about to eat fucking pancakes at one in the afternoon.

Derek blinks and blinks again, certain he’s just seeing things.  But no, Peter’s still there, alive and healthy and even smiling at something his lunch companion is saying.  Not even smirking.  _Smiling_.

And before Derek can reconsider, he’s storming across the street towards the restaurant, slamming open the door and barrelling inside, fangs just barely hidden even as he bares his teeth.  With only feet from each other, Derek can spot the neat goatee Peter now sports, and there’s- is that a tattoo peeking out from his coat?  Derek can’t make out what it is, with just a partial of what seems to be complicated black lines, but it ends so high up Peter’s neck that even with a buttoned-up collar, Derek would probably still be able to see it.

Peter sees him coming.  Of course he does, Derek isn’t exactly being subtle.  He doesn’t do subtle even when he isn’t angry.  It’s one of his many failings that his uncle lamented over more than once, once upon a time.  And when all Peter does is lean back and arch a condescending eyebrow at his approach, Derek can’t stop the snarl that escapes him or the hand he uses to shove Peter against the back of the booth as he comes to a seething halt beside the table, looming menacingly over the man.

“What the hell are you doing here?!”

Peter just reaches up and calmly detaches Derek’s hand from his shoulder – _Alpha strength, of course,_ _and even stronger than he remembers_ – and Derek has to retract his limb or risk broken bones.  Peter’s eyes glitter knowingly but all he does is make a show of looking at his menu.  “Well, we _were_ about to order.”

Derek barely refrains from smashing the table to splinters, fists balling at his sides instead.  “You know what I mean!  You’ve been gone for years!  You think you can just waltz back into town whenever you want?  Like you didn’t go on a killing spree the last time you were here?”

Peter looks infuriatingly unconcerned about the entire matter.  “One, you can’t prove it was me.  I made certain of that.  And two, everyone knows Beacon Hills is unclaimed land.”  His blue eyes chill to ice.  “Laura left, you left, and then I left, and just because you came back and was stupid enough to stay doesn’t mean the territory is yours.  I smelled no patrols or even scent-markers at the border, and no Alpha has come to confront us.  So, in conclusion, yes, I do think I can waltz into this town anytime I please.”  His mouth curves into a sharp familiar smirk that never fails to make Derek want to punch him.  “I’m a wonderful dancer too.  You should see my footwork.”

A quiet chortle comes from the other person at the table, and Derek finally drags his attention away from his uncle, glaring at Peter’s whatever instead and hoping to quail them into silence.

Then he pulls up short when he realizes just who Peter is sitting with.  From outside, the angle wasn’t quite right for Derek to get a good look at the second person in the booth, but now-

“ _Stiles?_ ”  He blurts out, shocked all over again.

And it _is_ Stiles, lounging on his side of the booth and smiling blandly up at Derek.  He’s wearing one of those nerdy-looking plaid shirts that he’s always seemed inexplicably fond of, but he’s grown his hair out from the buzz cut, and Derek wonders if that’s why Stiles doesn’t seem quite as… young anymore despite the fact that he’s clearly still at the tail-end of his teenage years.  He seems… he just seems different.  Calmer maybe.  Or something.

Although if he’s honest, Derek’s never understood what was up with this kid.  He was just another teenager trailing after Scott and Isaac, sometimes flailing in excitement or panic or whatever the situation called for, sticking his nose into everything, but underneath that, there was always something… off.   Derek could never figure it out, but it made him cagey and suspicious around the teen even though Stiles was probably the one who helped him most when he needed it.

And then he disappeared the same night Peter did, and Scott insisted from the very beginning that Peter had kidnapped Stiles for one reason or another, except the Sheriff couldn’t really put out a BOLO for him because he was apparently emancipated and had even graduated early, all the paperwork checked out, and when they dug up the records that led them to the apartment Stiles used to live in, the place was empty, and the landlord claimed that Stiles had paid out the rent for the rest of the month before moving out.  There was no sign at all that Peter abducted Stiles.  For all intents and purposes, Stiles left of his own free will.

Scott never believed it.  Derek didn’t either, really.  But it wasn’t like they could do anything.  They couldn’t even pick up any scent trails to follow, and then they had other problems to worry about.

But now, Peter’s back, and so is Stiles, and apparently they seem to have been together the whole time.  Derek has no idea what happened for _this_ to happen.

“Hello, Derek,” Stiles offers into the stunned silence.  “How have you been?”

The light overhead flickers, and Stiles’ eyes flash a supernatural bronze.  Derek gapes for all of a second before rounding on Peter again.  “Did you _bite_ him?!”

Peter’s mouth twists into an oddly sardonic little smile, and Derek twitches in response because his uncle’s scent goes all weird, amused, very genuinely amused, but at the same time, it’s soured with just a touch of fear.

It’s also gone within a heartbeat so Derek isn’t entirely sure if he smelled it right, and it doesn’t make sense anyway, so-

“Of course not,” Peter murmurs, one hand extending to raise the mug of coffee to his lips.  “Stiles said no.”

There’s a weird inflection in his words, but Derek’s never been able to read Peter even on the best of days, and this time’s no different, especially when Peter looks across the table, and Derek follows his gaze to Stiles, whose smile has widened, and Derek doesn’t care what Peter says about not having given Stiles the bite, there is definitely something supernatural about the kid’s eyes, gleaming an unnatural bronze as they focus on Peter with an unwavering sort of intent, and for just a second, Peter’s head tilts like he’s flashing throat, except that can’t be right either, there’s no way Peter would give up his Alpha power, and even if he did, he’d never submit, he’s still a werewolf while Stiles is just some mouthy teen, weird eyes or no.

Irritation snaps up Derek’s spine – Peter’s confusing him without even trying, and that’s never not been frustrating – so he ends up growling back, “Didn’t realize consent mattered to you.”

Peter glances up again, a sneer curling delicately at one corner of his mouth.  “Trust me, Derek, If I had been thinking straight that night, McCall would’ve been the _last_ person I’d have given the bite to.  Tell me, has his little Argent set his house on fire yet?”

Derek’s shoulders hitch back with a flinch that he can’t quite contain.  He should’ve expected Peter to throw that back in his face sooner or later.  He hates that the man’s got a point about the Argents.

“No,” He bites back, although admittedly what she _did_ do wasn’t much better.  He doesn’t say that.  “And _Scott_ is Alpha now.  He’s a True Alpha.  He’s in charge of Beacon Hills now.”

There’s a ringing silence after this revelation, and Derek can’t help taking a twisted sort of satisfaction in the rare look of surprise on Peter’s face.

Of course, then Peter just snorts into his coffee, and then he puts that down and actually scoffs out a laugh full of unadulterated scorn.  “ _Scott_ is an Alpha?  Well, I suppose that would explain the lack of patrols and scent-markers.  Still as ignorant as ever if he can’t even fulfill the most basic requirements of an Alpha’s responsibilities.  And you don’t smell remotely like him, Derek, so either Scott doesn’t want you as Pack or _you_ don’t want him as your Alpha.  Does he even understand what Pack is?  What has he done for this land?  For the people supposedly under his protection?  If the answer isn’t a positive one, Derek, then that _boy_ is in charge of _nothing_.”

Derek grinds his teeth together even as his heart thuds loudly in his chest.  Well, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?  His claws dig into his palm, hand curled around the plastic handles of this stupid tiny bag that he has to get every damn month.  Peter doesn’t know, doesn’t even- wasn’t here for it, and he still manages to hit the nail on the head.

He wants to rage, wants to pummel Peter into the ground just to have something to hit, wants to cut Peter with words as deeply as Peter can cut him every single time.

“I’m hungry,” Stiles speaks up abruptly, and the tension deflates like a popped balloon as Peter turns away from Derek, easily dismissing him in that single gesture and zeroing in on Stiles instead.

“We were ordering, weren’t we?”  Peter agrees, picking up his menu again.  “Nephew, you’re in the way.”

Derek glowers and opens his mouth to retort, because they are _not_ finished here, but before he can say anything more, a waitress appears, smiling vapidly and rattling off a cheery generic greeting, notepad in hand.  She elbows Derek aside with enough strength behind it to send Derek staggering to the side, and before he can stop himself, his fangs drop and his eyes flash in a way that the woman can’t possibly miss.

Except.  She doesn’t react.  At all.  She just continues smiling expectantly, nodding and scribbling down the orders Peter and Stiles give her.

“What the fuck?”  Derek demands, and then finally gets a good look around.  He hasn’t exactly been quiet, losing his head the moment he realized Peter was back in town, but nobody’s so much as tried to eavesdrop, all of them going about their business like this booth isn’t even occupied, much less involved in a heated confrontation two seconds ago.  It’s almost eerie how they’re just- not seeing anything out of the ordinary.  “What-”

Peter rolls his eyes as the waitress wanders away with the menus.  Stiles looks up again and invites in mild tones, “Why don’t you join us, Derek?  I’ll even share some of my pancakes with you.”

Derek glares again, he’s not here for goddamn pancakes, he’s here to find out what Peter is up to this time because the last thing they need is more bodies dropping, and there’s just no way Peter’s come back just to enjoy the scenery.  Unfortunately, the annoying flippancy that Stiles has always used to brush off Derek’s threats – silent or otherwise – hasn’t changed a bit because the idiot just grins back like Derek can’t rip his throat out with one swipe of his hand.

“It’s just pancakes, sourwolf,” Stiles’ voice lilts up with a clear laughing taunt.  “I promise they won’t eat you.”

Derek snarls irritably – Stiles has never failed to get on his nerves with a few words, possibly because he reminds Derek so much of Peter sometimes – and he reaches out to slap the moron upside the head to shut him up.  It never works for long but at least it makes Derek feel better.

He doesn’t get the chance.

A louder, deeper, far more guttural snarl rents the air, and before Derek can blink, a clawed hand snags him by the arm and promptly flings him across the restaurant without so much as a by-your-leave.  He crashes headlong into the front counter, bits of glass and metal raining down on him as he groans painfully and his broken arm and ribs shift themselves back into place.

It takes him a good few seconds to haul himself into a sitting position, flushing with anger and a spark of unease because is Peter _insane?_   Derek slipped a little earlier but the humans here seem oblivious enough; this though, there’s no way they can cover this up, and-

-then Derek catches sight of Peter, on his feet with features that may as well have been carved from stone.  The only things giving what he is away are the too bright eyes and hint of claws, but there’s no hiding the way he looks ready to commit murder, in an icy, deadly calm sort of way, and Derek is struck by the sudden, apprehensive realization that Peter isn’t looking at him like Derek is his nephew, or at the very least someone he might show some restraint against in a fight; instead he’s looking at Derek like he’s calculating how long it would take to dispose the body.

Derek didn’t even know there was a difference until now, but it’s easy to tell – all the mockery and sarcasm that Peter usually directs at him are gone, replaced by something cold and distant and merciless.

There’s a sigh.  Derek doesn’t dare take his eyes off of Peter, even though a part of him registers the fact that nobody’s screaming or calling the police, and that’s just not normal.  Nothing about the past ten minutes has been normal.  Then Stiles is rising from his seat and stepping up behind Peter, and then – casual as you please, like he does it all the time – one of his hands comes up and curls around the back of Peter’s neck, light but firm with his fingers splayed over the top of that tattoo.

Peter almost instantly relaxes.  Derision flits across his face but most of the rage leaks out of him, and he even seems to rock back a little into Stiles’ hand.  Derek can only watch in disbelief at the way _Peter Hale_ of all people just _lets_ Stiles do that, touch one of a werewolf’s most vulnerable places, laying _claim_ to him in a way that – as far as Derek knows – Peter never even let Derek’s _mom_ do.

“I offered you pancakes, not poison, Derek,” Stiles interjects, smiling away from over Peter’s shoulder even as he shuffles another step forward before plastering himself against Peter’s back and slinging his free arm around the older werewolf’s waist while his other hand slides around until it’s wrapped neatly around Peter’s throat.  Like that, he has almost half a head on Peter, and the possessive glint in his eyes is unmistakeable.

Peter shivers in response, and there’s absolutely no shame or hesitation when he slumps back against Stiles and tips his chin up even further.  It’s a toss-up whether or not he even still remembers that they actually have an audience.

Derek just gawks.  What.  What the fuck.  Seriously, _what the fuck?_

Maybe he really is hallucinating.  Maybe he’s still standing across the street and raving at thin air like a lunatic.  He thinks that might actually be more comforting than… than _this_.

“Right then,” Stiles continues more briskly, but there’s something distinctly _not Stiles_ in his tone of voice and in the way he’s practically molesting Derek’s uncle in public and Derek could’ve gone his whole life without getting front-row seats to this display.  Stiles catches his eye and smirks before leaning forward to nuzzle under Peter’s jaw.  “Now Peter, you do remember I can take care of myself, yes?”

Peter blinks hard, once, before summoning a slightly shaky but still sardonic smile.  “Of course.  I daresay it’s part of your charm.”

Stiles chuckles, and the hand at Peter’s throat tightens.  “Still so possessive then.”

Something too quick or maybe too complicated for Derek to name flickers across Peter’s face, and a swallow bobs behind the curve of Stiles’ hand.  “I don’t-”

“-mean to be, oh I know,” Stiles coos.  “But you can’t help it anyway, with those wolf instincts of yours.  It’s okay; I do quite like having a knight in furry armour.  It’s flattering, and a novelty, I have to admit.  Besides, when you do forget, I always have fun helping you remember.”

His lips skate over the edge of Peter’s tattoo in a parody of a kiss, only it’s one that makes Peter shudder almost violently, pupils blowing wide, and then somehow, Stiles spins him around and effortlessly deposits him back into the booth like the werewolf weighs nothing.  Peter sways in place for a moment, off-balance and looking more than a little dazed, but his gaze is already lifting to make up for the sudden height difference, drawn to Stiles like moth to flame, or like the rest of the world could cease to exist and he wouldn’t even notice.

“Get it now?”

It takes Derek a few seconds to realize that Stiles is speaking to him this time.  He tears his eyes away from his uncle, feeling pretty off-balance himself.  Stiles is smiling at him now, hands tucked into his pockets, weight rocked back on his heels, and even with the extra glow to his eyes, he still doesn’t look like anything other than your average teenager.

“Father, you’re a dense one, aren’t you?”  Stiles mutters after several more seconds tick by with Derek floundering for something to say.  The teen doesn’t look particularly impatient but he’s slowly losing the perpetually amused air he’s been wearing ever since Derek realized he was there.

Derek would very much like to growl back at Stiles, but that isn’t likely to achieve anything, as much as Derek is loath to admit.  He’s never been able to scare Stiles into submission for some reason, no matter how much he tried to assert his authority.  It was like the idiot didn’t have any sense of self-preservation whatsoever, and that was just plain weird because even the most stupid of humans have that part of the hindbrain that automatically starts screaming when they’re in the presence of an actual predator, telling them to flee or play dead or _submit_.  But Stiles has never reacted to Derek logically.  Even Scott as a werewolf was afraid of him for a while, and Isaac even more so of course, especially at the beginning, and Derek didn’t even have to try with them.

Not that he tries _now_ , either, or that he tried particularly hard back in the day.  At least when it comes to Isaac.  _Scott_ is another matter entirely, one Derek generally doesn’t like to think about for fear of quite possibly following in his uncle’s footsteps.  Overall though, contrary to popular belief, Derek doesn’t actually enjoy going around frightening kids for fun, but he resented the three teenagers for messing around in stuff that was none of their business, and they even went so far as to dig up _his sister’s body_ for god’s sakes, out of fucking _curiosity_ , and then they _got him arrested for supposedly killing her_.  Was he supposed to be all friendly with them after that?

“Yes, I suppose I could see how that might piss anyone off,” Stiles muses, and Derek freezes.  Not that he was moving much before but his shoulders hunch up into a rigid line as he eyes Stiles with a little more caution.  Did Stiles just-?

“Although,” The teen continues blithely.  “I would like to point out that it was Scott and Isaac who did the whole grave desecration thing.  I only goaded and abetted.”

His grin has more teeth in it than necessary but there’s also definite humour there, and Derek is torn between more irritation and relief.  And he doesn’t even know why.

“But that’s all in the past,” Stiles says with a flippant wave of his hand.  He’s still looking at Derek with an unnervingly honed gaze.  “And not what either of us are here for today.”

He cocks his head in consideration before taking a step back, only to reach out and rest a light hand on Peter’s shoulder.  Peter blinks again, but he seems to have recovered, and this time, he only tips a slightly distracted but effortlessly patronizing smirk in Derek’s direction.

Derek scowls harder, glancing uneasily between them because there’s something niggling at him, beyond the sheer _weirdness_ that this whole damn impromptu meeting has been, but it’s not quite coming to him.

“…I just want to know what Peter’s doing here,” He finally grinds out when it seems as if Stiles isn’t going to say anything else.  Derek stays on the ground though.  He doesn’t try to get up.  For the first time since he met the teen, he thinks there’s something… dangerous about Stiles, something he can’t put his finger on but senses all the same, and it makes him wonder if it’s a new development or if it’s always been there, just very, very well hidden.

It’s Peter who answers this time, steadily enough and with another roll of his eyes that clearly questions Derek’s intellect.

“Believe me, Nephew,” Peter drawls.  “If it was up to me, stepping foot into this town ever again would have been too soon.  I don’t mind, of course,” He slants a look up at Stiles, who continues watching Derek with an unblinking gaze that’s vaguely reminiscent of a reptile.  “Stiles always makes it worth my while.”

This finally pulls Stiles’ attention away from Derek, who has to grit back an inexplicable sigh of relief.  Those eyes were… unsettling to look into, and more than once, Derek found his own gaze skittering away.  He doesn’t know how Peter can stare directly back at Stiles like he is right now, almost mesmerized in the way he sits – perfectly content – under Stiles’ regard.

Then of course, the words click, something in his mind folds, or perhaps it stops rebelling against the very idea, and still it takes several incredulous seconds before he manages to splutter out, “You followed _Stiles_ back here?”

Which, alright, if Peter and Stiles are… are _Pack_ , alarmingly enough, or something like that, then it would make sense for Peter to agree if Stiles wanted to come back to Beacon Hills for whatever reason.  But that's just it – Peter doesn't do follow or agree or really even indulge.  Derek's mother had a hard enough time getting Peter to do what she wanted half the time; Peter always had his own agenda, even if the things he did benefitted the pack at the same time, and Stiles is just… _Stiles_.  Nobody listens to him, not even Scott and Isaac did – from what Derek saw – except when they needed Stiles to haul them out of trouble.  So if Peter is here, it's because he _wants_ to be here, and he probably manipulated Stiles into thinking that it was all _his_ idea.  Manipulation is, after all, what Peter does best.

He looks back at Peter, expecting a sly smirk at the very least.  Instead, there's a curl of contempt mixed with a long-suffering sort of annoyance written across his face that Derek is plenty familiar with because it's the expression Peter always wears when Derek's missed the whole point. _As always, Nephew_ , he can almost hear the man sigh.

Derek snaps his teeth at the older werewolf, beyond fed up at this point, and he's about to shove himself back to his feet and force some answers out of his uncle once and for all when Stiles interjects, "Eyes up here, pup."

Which is just insulting.  What-

And then he meets Stiles' gaze again, and it's as if any and all words he wants to say simply dries up in his throat.

"Mortals," Stiles laments, slinking forward until he's a foot away from Derek before crouching down so they're more or less eye-level, and whatever it is about Stiles' eyes is even worse up close, and Derek wants to look away but he _can't_.  Stiles just smiles, a pretty, easy stretch of the mouth that's designed to look harmless.  "There's something about your brains that just doesn't want to make the connection – a defence mechanism probably; if nothing else, self-preservation is universal – so it shies away from the knowledge, even when it's staring you in the face.  Which, you know, makes things easier for my kind of course, but it can get so… very… _tedious_ , sometimes."

He pauses, still smiling, still _staring_ , and Derek can feel a headache building in his skull.

"Derek Hale," Stiles says softly.  "I don't need you to know what I am.  But I do want to make one thing very clear."

Fingers grasp his chin in a deceptively gentle grip, and there's a part of Derek's mind that's been reduced to gibbering with terror, even though he still doesn't know _why_.  All he knows is the pain that's tearing up his eyes and Stiles' voice that suddenly seems ten times louder and the only thing he can hear.

"Your uncle," Stiles explains in tones similar to a parent lecturing a child.  "Is mine now.  And I don't appreciate other people touching things that are mine.  That includes hurting him.  Only I'm allowed to do that now.  So those violent tendencies you’re so susceptible to?"  His fingers tighten, and Derek swears he can feel his bones creak.  "Best curb them, Derek, or I won't be happy.  And trust me, nobody wants me unhappy.  Do I make myself clear?"

He does.  He really fucking does, and Derek wants to nod, say yes, anything to make the burn in his eyes and the funny ringing noise in his ears stop, but he can't even move his head, and for a moment that feels like an eternity, he's immersed in light so bright it doesn't even look white anymore.  It's just a dizzying layer of luminescent radiance, and by the time it finally ebbs and releases him from its clutches, it takes him several gasping minutes to become aware of his surroundings again, and another few minutes after that for his mind to make sense of it all.

Stiles is no longer holding on to him, which is a gut-wrenching relief.  Instead, Derek's on the floor in a fetal position, feeling like his eyes have been gouged out, with his breaths rattling around in his lungs.  He’s completely healed but his limbs are shaking as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, swallowing hard as he tries very hard not to throw up.

Nobody wanders by to ask if he's alright, or even to kick him out for causing a scene.  Nobody even gives him odd looks for being on the ground.  In fact, the entire diner looks immaculate again, the counter he crashed into is whole and unbroken, and the handful of other people in the building are either eating or bustling around doing their jobs.  If they have to walk past Derek to do that, they simply scoot around him like- like they know something's there so they avoid it but they don't pay any mind to it in the process.

Peter and Stiles – when Derek has enough presence of mind to look over – are back in their booth as if neither of them ever moved.  But there's a smug sort of pleasure in the sharp curve of Peter's mouth, and it would've been a nice, albeit irritating, expression if not for the serrated edge of madness lurking beneath it.

Derek thinks he finally understands, and not just the fact that Stiles is clearly the one in charge here, but also that his uncle is still just as broken as he was four years and a murderous rampage ago.  Derek actually thought that Peter was… not better, exactly – Peter's probably not even capable of being better, Derek's heard his mom sneer that more than once whenever she got into an argument with her brother – but saner maybe, and less on the verge of killing everyone within a five-mile radius at the drop of a hat, even with whatever motives and schemes the man was sure to have.  But that isn't it at all.  Peter's still broken, just in a different way.  And the one who did it…

Derek looks at Stiles, sitting there in his stupid plaid and regular jeans and sneakers, fiddling with the straw in his ice water, and he _looks so normal_ , but now, even just clapping eyes on him sends a gagging sort of fear curdling through Derek, his wolf whining submissively at the back of his head, all anger forgotten.  He still doesn't know what the fuck Stiles is but he _sees_ now – whatever he is isn't something Derek ever wants to be on the wrong end of ever again.

"Derek," Peter says, and Derek's almost grateful for the reprieve even when his uncle looks back at him with a tolerantly amused kind of indifference that one would usually reserve for strangers.

For all of Peter's faults, all his rows with Mom and his underhanded dirty methods and unrepentant silver tongue that's gotten Derek into as much trouble as it's gotten him out of, Derek doesn't think his uncle has ever looked at him like that, like Derek means _nothing_ to him, and he's speaking before he can stop himself, rasping out with a dawning sense of horror, "What did he _do_ to you?"

Peter blinks, and then the amusement grows, although it's coupled with a cynical sort of pity.  "You're asking about you and me?  Or the lack thereof, I suppose.  Oh Derek," Peter shakes his head, and for a split second, a flash of that old, familiar, world-burning rage makes the Alpha’s eyes bleed red.  "That's not Stiles.  That's you.  And Laura.  And six years left for dead."

Derek flinches, and Peter smiles, satisfied, even as he turns back to his drink, to Stiles, to this new whatever kind of life he's made for himself.  Or been made for him.

"Go home, Nephew," Peter dismisses with a finality that echoes in Derek's ears like a gong.  "And I would suggest dropping a word of… warning to your little boy Alpha as well.  Saves Stiles the trouble, you know."

After that, there's not much left that Derek can say or do, and he isn't about to push his luck with Stiles right there.  So he clambers to his feet, feeling clumsy and one wrong step away from falling flat on his face, but with a last wary glance at Peter and an almost-glance at Stiles, he turns and slinks out the door, making sure to give the booth a wide berth.

His little plastic shopping bag is hanging on the door handle.  He almost leaves it there.  Only the reminder of Cora needing the contents has him taking it with him.

He can't leave the diner fast enough.  He still doesn't know what they're doing back in Beacon Hills.  It's certainly not for vacation.  But at this point, he can't say he cares all that much anymore either.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments?
> 
> (Also, when I posted this, I noticed I had 666 kudos. Otherwise known as the Devil's Number. ...Welp.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably hold this back a while longer but whatever. Only have one more (mostly) finished chapter after this before I'm caught up.

 

“What is _wrong_ with you?”  Cora demands after the fifth time Derek fails to sit still on the sofa.  "And what is that smell?"

Derek takes a deep breath and tries to smooth the anxiety out of his scent.  He knows it bothers Cora more than it normally would since she's a lot more dependent on her senses of smell and hearing these days, but he hasn't been able to relax since leaving the diner.

His hands still want to shake just thinking about it.  About Stiles.

"Derek!"

"It's nothing," He growls back automatically, and then adds, "Don’t take the pills before you eat."

Cora shoots him a dirty look, and for someone who can't see, it's a scarily accurate glare.  "Quit stalling.  I know something happened today so you might as well just spit it out."  She takes an exaggerated sniff, and her face twists a little.  "Seriously, what _is_ that?  It's... familiar." 

Derek grimaces.  For a moment longer, he busies himself with setting aside a portion of the lo mein.  "Where's Isaac?" 

"Where else?"  Cora retorts flatly, not bothering to even pretend to let him distract her.  “You can hear him just as well as I can.”

Derek spares a glance up at the ceiling.  Another bad day.  Then again, Isaac’s always had more of those than he has good days so that's nothing new.  And neither is Cora drilling holes in the side of his head.  She's a lot more hostile and mistrustful about things being kept from her than he remembers from before the fire, and _that's_ something Derek tries not to think too deeply about, if only to prevent himself from spiraling even further into his own self-loathing.

"...I bumped into a few people today on my way back," He finally mutters when it becomes clear that there's no avoiding this conversation.  Well, there is, but he figures it's probably better for Cora to be warned.  And... And she has the right to know.  “One of them was… Peter.”

"Peter?"  Cora parrots, her frown becoming more pronounced.  "Who the hell's Peter?"  She isn't stupid though, and she may still be missing a chunk of her memories but there's really only one Peter they both know, and she can put two and two together just fine.  When it clicks, her cloudy eyes widen and her spine goes rigid with shock.  “Wait, you mean _Uncle Peter?_ ”

Derek shrugs helplessly.  "Yeah.  He's back." 

Cora stares blankly into a middle distance for a lengthy moment.  "What was he doing?" 

Derek snorts despite the whole insane situation.  "Ordering pancakes at IHOP." 

Cora squints in his direction like she thinks he's trying to make a joke and it came out wrong, but she doesn't actually contradict him.  Instead, she sits back with her carton of Chinese takeout and a pair of chopsticks and eventually asks in uncharacteristically quiet tones, "Did you tell him about me?" 

Derek's shoulders bunch instinctively.  "No." 

Cora's heard all about what Peter did, and from more than one source too.  She's never said anything about it though, never condemned their uncle for what he did like Derek or Scott or all the others, never spoke up for him either.  Whatever her opinion is of the man who used to give her piggyback rides and dote on her in a way he never even came close to doing with Derek or Laura, Cora's kept it to herself.  Derek doesn't even know how much about Peter she can still remember.

Cora bristles.  "Why not?"

Derek – admittedly pointlessly – flashes his eyes in warning at her.  "You know what he's done.  Why would I tell him?"

"Why _wouldn't_ you?"  Cora growls right back, not at all intimidated.  "He's my uncle too!"

"He's insane!"  Derek snaps, voice rising in a way he tries not to with Cora.  "He killed a bunch of people-"

"-who killed _our family!_ "  Cora snarls, and she sounds more like Peter in this one moment than Derek is strictly comfortable with.  "If Mom and Dad were alive, they would've done the exact same thing – hunted down the bastards and killed them!  That's what werewolves _do_ , Derek!  It's not like Peter was slaughtering innocents left and right!  We don't let our murderers go free and try again!  I thought you finally understood that after me and Deucalion and McCall’s shitty second-chance policy!  What is your _problem-_ "

"He killed Laura!"  Derek bellows.

Cora doesn't miss a beat, cheeks flushing, eyes glowing a dull, washed out gold, her fangs dropping just past her lips as she roars back, " _She left us first!_ "

A ringing silence falls in the aftermath, broken only by the wild thump of Isaac's heartbeat upstairs.  And then Cora is tossing her lo mein back onto the coffee table and shoving to her feet, fingers trailing along the furniture as she manoeuvres her way across the room.

"She was our _sister_ ," Derek says, more stunned than anything else.  "And we- we didn't know about you-"

Cora stops and turns back, a dark, disgusted scowl etched on her features.  "And Peter was our uncle, and you _did_ know about him even if you didn't know that _he_ was the one who pulled me out of the house during the fire, that _he_ was the one who kept going back to try and save everyone else and _that's_ why he ended up so badly burned, and Laura _still left him behind_.  Did you even wait long enough to make sure he got out of surgery alive?"  Her lip curls into a sneer.  "I had burns too, Derek.  Not coma bad, and I healed eventually on my own, but no sane hospital would’ve let me check out early.  I would’ve had to stay, and… what?  I’m supposed to believe I would’ve been different?  That you and Laura wouldn’t have left me behind too?  I know you definitely didn't wait for the police to identify all the bodies.  Otherwise, you would've known _I wasn't there_."

She doesn't wait for him to reply, turning around again and stalking out of the loft.  Derek knows she won't go far – _can't_ go far – but it's little comfort in the face of the torrent of accusations she just threw at him.  He thought they were okay, him and his only remaining sister, the miraculous sibling he was given back despite everything, but of course, nothing’s ever been that easy for him.

He stares at his dinner for a while, then closes the lid and pushes it back onto the table.  Suddenly, he's not all that hungry either.

 

* * *

 

"You have horribly predictable family, Peter," Stiles comments offhandedly as they shed coats and shoes back at their hotel suite after a day out around town.

Peter scoffs.  "Derek’s always been like that.  It's why he's so easy to manipulate."

Stiles glances at him, a smile lurking at the corners of his lips.  "And you do so love to do that."

Peter shrugs carefully, easing into a smirk when Stiles just chuckles and flops onto the sofa.  Peter joins him, fishing out his phone to scroll through a few messages sent to him from a witch he likes to barter over books with, and he doesn't resist when Stiles tugs him around until he's lying along the length of the couch with his head in the angel's lap.

"You call my kind demons, actually," Stiles says thoughtfully as he strokes an absent hand through Peter's hair.

Peter blinks up at him in silent query.  Stiles offers a rather bemused smile in return.  "Fallen angels are essentially demons.  You're kinda weird though.  When you think about me, it's always in conjunction with 'angel' or 'fallen angel' at most.  Never 'demon'."

Peter thinks about that for a moment before lowering his phone into his lap and letting the screen go dark.  "Do you… not like it?"

Stiles shrugs carelessly.  "I don't care.  It's just weird."  His smile turns amused again, with a dash of pleased approval.  "An interesting weird though.  You're good at that."

Peter tips his head back and goes boneless when Stiles complies and curls a hand around his throat.  "Hmm.  I'm good at a lot of things."

Stiles grins.  "Yes you are, practicing humility being at the top of the list of course." 

"Of course.  I hear they preach that sort of thing in Heaven." 

"And you're nothing if not devout." 

Peter meets Stiles' gaze.  "Of course." 

Stiles' smile goes lazy, like a cat after a successful hunt and a satisfying meal.  "Good." 

There's silence for a few minutes, companionable in a way Peter once thought he'd never be with Stiles.  But when Stiles is calm and content to just sit like this, there's a certain kind of all-encompassing peace he exudes that makes Peter relax as well.  He isn't sure if that's just him or if it's anybody caught in the vicinity.  But for all that there is very little out there that can go toe to toe with Stiles, the angel never really allows himself to be like- like _this_ in public, and so Peter hasn't had a chance to test out his theories.  He can't say he minds though.  The idea that Stiles is only ever this open with _Peter_ pleases every instinct he possesses.

Of course, then Stiles leans forward again, a curious glint in his eyes.  “What about the other one?  Is she as predictable as her brother?”

Peter's brow knits.  "Laura?  Very.  She was a lot like her mother actually, and nobody knew Talia as well as I did."

Stiles cocks his head.  His thumb brushes along the line of Peter's trachea.  "No, the other one.  The one that got out." 

Peter goes still.  "...What?" 

Stiles hums.  "Well, I didn't think you knew.  But Derek thinks very loudly, and several times he was thinking pretty vehemently about _not_ telling you about-” He pauses, gaze avid on Peter’s face.  “-a girl named Cora.”

Peter’s breath freezes in his lungs.

"She's living with him right now," Stiles continues with a casual sort of flippancy.  "And I got the impression that there's something wrong with her but I'm not sure what.  That bag he had with him was for her though."

Peter starts breathing again.  He closes his eyes and focuses on the press of Stiles' hand even as his mind travels back to that fateful day when Peter came home to his house and family on fire.  When he threw himself against the mountain ash barrier over and over again until the flames burned through the line and he was able to hurl himself at the nearest basement window.  When his fingertips bled and his claws tore themselves out against the frame.  When he fought through the agony of the fire melting his flesh just to reach inside and grab hold of any – _any at all_ – of the weakly grasping hands inside.

When he finally managed to crawl through, tumble in, and then scramble back out with the first tiny unconscious body he could get his hands on.

When he went back for another – _anyone, anyone at all_ – only to be met with a desperate flash of crimson eyes and a last hard shove that sent him sprawling away from the house, from that window, a split second before the supports collapsed and buried the basement, followed by an explosion of what was probably the gas main blowing that rocked the very foundations of the earth and sent his world spinning into a bottomless pit of smoke and flame and the screams of the dead for the next half dozen years.

He resented Talia for a lot of things.  Still does, when he bothers thinking about them.  But he's never hated her more than that moment when she chose to try and save him instead of letting him die with them.

He opens his eyes.  Stiles is silent above him, and Peter appreciates that.

"I thought that was one of my hallucinations," He says at last, haltingly.  "I had those, a lot, when I was in the coma, and even without them, I can't remember all of that day very clearly anyway.  But I thought- When Laura came back, and then Derek, and neither of them brought Cora with them, I thought I must have only dreamed about getting her out."

He stops.  His phone creaks in the grip of his hand.  "…She's really alive?"

Stiles inclines his head, his expression unreadable.  It's times like this that Peter wonders what Stiles feels about these things.  Human emotions.  Follies.  Weaknesses.  A fallen angel wouldn't care, would they?  Probably not angels either.  He's learned enough about them from Stiles and from books that Stiles pointed him to that – even if Stiles were biased, and he probably is – Peter gets the feeling that the winged seraphs from Above collectively consider themselves superior to mere mortals and their perceived imperfections.

But Stiles has never mocked him for any of it.  At most, he seems amused by the conflicts Peter's mentioned once having with his family, with Talia in particular, but he doesn't scoff or sneer at Peter for _feeling_.  For being human.  Sometimes even wants to know, asking Peter about his life, about his job and school years and favourite foods.  Maybe Peter is projecting, but Stiles is… kinder than Peter expected at the beginning.  _Capable_ of being kinder when he feels like it, when Peter knows full well the angel doesn't have to be kind at all.

Fingers tighten in his hair.  A warning.  "Peter."

Peter drops that line of thought and concentrates on the present instead.

"…I want her," He says after a moment, and he isn't surprised by how fierce the words come out.  Talia never neglected her youngest daughter, she still spent a decent amount of time with her, but she also didn't pay her as much attention as she did Derek and Laura when they were growing up, too busy juggling all the trouble her son got into, and – ever since the girl hit puberty – beginning to groom her eldest for all the future Alpha responsibilities Laura would one day bear.

And look how that turned out.  Clearly, _something_ went wrong there.  Still, Talia loved Cora just as much as she did her other children, but things like reading the girl enough bedtime stories and teaching her how to hunt and track and picking her up from school mostly fell to Peter.  Cora was his favourite, and he likes to think that she liked him best too.

He looks again at Stiles and promptly stiffens, the easy air between them dissipating all at once.  For the first time since he revealed Peter’s niece’s survival, Stiles' expression has gone cold, marble-like in its stillness, and when he speaks, Peter has to make an effort not to wince as the angel's voice resonates a little in his ears.  " _I_ don't."

Peter struggles to keep his breathing even.  "I.  Don't mean take her with us.  I just."  He backpedals.  "I would like to see her."

A long, tense minute goes by, one that makes Peter want to twitch and claw something and maybe drop to his knees and beg forgiveness all at the same time.  But Stiles' hands in his hair and on his throat don't let him do any of those things, so all he _can_ do is lie there and wait.

Stiles remains closed off and motionless, right up until something in the angel relents and life bleeds back into him, softening hard angles and unforgiving lines.  The hand at Peter's neck squeezes briefly before letting go completely, and Peter has to bite back a disappointed noise when he's nudged upright on the sofa instead.

"Well, alright," Stiles agrees easily.  "You need _something_ to do while we're here."

Peter clears his throat.  "And why _are_ we here, exactly?  I haven’t seen any mysterious deaths or disappearances in the paper."

"Well," Stiles stretches languidly before getting to his feet and heading for the kitchen area.  "That's what we're here to find out."

For an immortal being who can literally produce any food with a mere thought, Stiles is oddly fond of cooking.  Or perhaps not so oddly.  Years and years of being alive and one is bound to want a few hobbies.  So, nowadays, when they don't eat out, they take turns cooking meals.

Then he reviews Stiles' words in his head.  "You don't know?"  Because Stiles always knows, or at least he has a vague idea of the kind of chaos that draws him to a particular location.

Stiles straightens from the fridge and turns back to face him, and the smile he wears this time _is_ rather odd.

"I don't," He admits in musing tones, eyes wandering to the window and the grey skies outside.  "And isn't that strange?"

Peter studies the angel's profile for a while, even after Stiles resumes his rifle through the fridge.  It was probably the Nemeton, he thinks, that called Stiles back here, but Stiles doesn't know what, and that's… admittedly a little concerning, because it isn't often something comes along that can block Stiles' reach like that.  Actually, this is the first time Peter's ever witnessed it.

Still, it's _Stiles_ , and if there's one thing Peter has faith in, it's this fallen angel and his strength.  His ability to handle anything thrown their way.  His eternity.  And Peter is Stiles'.  That alone means he's protected as much as he is possessed, and maybe others wouldn't think so but – for Peter – it's a soothing thing to know.

"Stiles?"  He says instead after a few minutes tick by.  He rearranges himself on the couch and distractedly begins setting up the chessboard on the coffee table but most of his attention is on the angel.

"Yeah?"

He lines up the castle, the rook, the bishop, the black queen and king.  None of them fits Stiles, not really.  Even royalty is dethroned eventually.  "Cora's my favourite niece.  But I'm…"

He glances up, then taps a finger over the mark that winds along his shoulder and neck.  He needs no further words.

Stiles closes the fridge, and the light above him flickers for a moment, casting the angel in a temporary wreath of shadows that seems darker than they should be.

"Yes," Stiles agrees simply over potatoes and an empty pot, but the look in his eyes is as good as a hand on the back of Peter's neck, and the unresolved feeling bunched in Peter's shoulders finally unravels.

"How about curry tonight?"  Stiles suggests in a much lighter voice.

"Sounds delicious," Peter decides.  He hasn’t had curry in several months.  Stiles starts peeling the potatoes.  Peter reclines back against the sofa and moves his first pawn across the board in front of him.

 

* * *

 

The next day, they go to the Nemeton.  Peter leads the way because he's been before, back when his family was still alive and part of their patrols brought them past it.  The closer they get though, the more uneasy Peter feels.  The air feels thicker than he remembers, and he can smell blood in the air, not fresh but still recent.  By the time they reach the clearing where the familiar stump sits, Peter is subtly flexing his claws because it's been years but he's never forgotten a scent in his life, and _this_ one is rather memorable.

He catches Stiles' questioning eye as they draw level with the Nemeton and lets images and words flash through his mind, knowing Stiles would catch all of them.  It's a form of communication Peter is more comfortable with than he ever thought possible.  Once upon a time, anyone messing around with his mind would've had him fighting tooth and nail to get rid of the intruder.  Now, he's so used to having Stiles in his head that it's instinct to know what the angel wants and how to give it to him.

So Peter thinks – _Deucalion_ – _Alpha_ – _Hale Pack ally_ – _Talia's friend_ – _fool with a dream_ – _met with Gerard_ – _ambush_ – _dead pack_ – _blind_ – _revenge_ – _Alpha Pack_ , and he swiftly throws in very clear images of what the so-called Demon Wolf looks like as well, along with the rumours Peter has heard of the Alpha Pack, both now and back then, back before the fire when there were only the beginnings of whispers about an Alpha who courted other Alphas with the deaths of their packs.

Stiles' lip curls with derision even as he stops at the foot of the Nemeton and crouches down to run an idle finger along one of the roots.  "The stupidity of mankind will never cease to amaze me.  Peace talks with Gerard Argent?  There are racks in Hell reserved for souls like his.  I don't understand how anyone – even humans – can look at him and not see the _taint_.  _Mortals_.  How do you live so happily in denial?" 

Peter can't quite help making an indignant noise of protest, and he earns a conceding grin in response.  “Well alright, most mortals then.”

Peter just growls without heat even as he stoops down next to Stiles.  "So?  Is it... telling you anything?" 

Stiles tips a bemused look over at him.  "What exactly do you think the Nemeton is?" 

Peter huffs, because this is one of the areas where he has very little knowledge in.  "A magical tree?"  He gives it a dubious look.  "Stump?  Talia called it a guardian of our lands but I've never read any books that agreed.  Postulated, among other theories, but never confirmed." 

"That would be because it's _not_ a guardian," Stiles scoffs with an aggrieved roll of his eyes.  "And it's a stump because someone tried to shut it down.  No, Nemetons aren’t guardians.  They aren't even really beacons, which I assume is a theory you've read about as well?" 

Peter nods.  That was a pretty popular one in the few tomes that talked about Nemetons in the first place.  If there was one thing universally agreed upon in those books, it was that Nemetons tend to attract attention, from people and supernatural creatures alike, some of whom aren't even aware of being drawn in to begin with. 

"They attract people because that's what they _do_ ," Stiles explains.  He has a hand on the smooth surface of the stump now, and something invisible stirs like wind before a summer storm.  "Or more accurately, it’s what's on the other side of a Nemeton that attracts people.  Nemetons only take the form of trees, but they're not _actually_ trees.  They're gateways.  And depending on who called them up and what they wanted at the time, they're gateways that lead to either Heaven or Hell." 

He pauses.  Peter takes the reprieve to digest this new information, and he's hard-pressed not to gape.  "Then-" 

"Of course, I say Heaven or Hell, but it's really mostly Hell," Stiles continues blithely.  "There's rarely a good enough reason for someone to manage opening a portal to Heaven.  It's not just a matter of thinking 'I want a gateway to Heaven', and bam, you get it.  That's not how it works.  It takes _why_ you want it into the equation too, and most people want it because they want, I dunno, a face-to-face with the old man – priests love that sort of thing – or they want divine intervention with whatever problems they're having, or even a guaranteed ticket up there once they die because they're afraid they might end up in Hell.  But all those things?  They're selfish.  Greedy.  They're personal wants.  And those are sins.  Or at the very least, they're not very pure desires.  Desire in general isn't pure.  Even when your desire is to… save someone else, a big part of that is so that you yourself won’t have to suffer the loss.  It isn’t an entirely selfless act, even if it _is_ better than most of the other reasons people have, and on occasion, I've even seen it work out.

"But most of the time it doesn't, and all of it just means that when they summon a Nemeton, they get a portal straight to Hell instead, and they don't even realize it.  Once the gateway's opened though, _that's_ when the attraction sets in.  It's… You're susceptible to it, you mortals.  Heaven or Hell, it doesn't matter.  Heaven exudes a… heavenly light, I suppose, all the good things condensed, drawing you in, and who wouldn't want that, right?  And Hell, well Hell is temptation personified.  It's why it tends to attract the worst humanity has to offer, or the most desperate, the ones with nothing left to lose that they'd even sell their soul for whatever they want.  People like that – it's easy to hook them in, and then they'll get a demon or ten on the other side whispering in their ears.  They won't even really know it; it's not _speech_ the way you know it.  Not _words_.It's subtler than that – creeps in, takes root, and it changes you.  _Not_ for the better."

He stands, dusting off his jeans before giving Peter – still quietly stunned – a hand up.

"These days though, nobody really knows any of that anymore," Stiles murmurs with a funny twist of his lips.  "They still summon these things for power or whatever, but they don't know where that power comes from, or even at what price.  I suppose it's lucky that not many people _can_ summon them."

Peter stares at the tree stump for a moment.  "And... what _is_ the price?"

Stiles shrugs, shoving his hands into his sweater pockets.  "What's the price for any kind of power?"  He releases a mocking bark of laughter that holds very little mirth.  "The answer to that, of course, is _steep_."

He trails off, nudging at the Nemeton with one sneaker before adding more solemnly, "It varies, from Nemeton to Nemeton.  But in general, there's always a lot of death involved."

Peter glances sidelong at the angel.  “Even the ones that lead to Heaven?  Those at least sound more… benign.”

Stiles snorts, and if there’s something tired and sad in the noise, it’s over before Peter can make sure.

“Sometimes I forget,” The angel mutters, but he looks off to the side instead of at Peter, a strange tilt to the smile he’s suddenly wearing.  “You’re still so _young_.”

He falls silent again, but only for a few contemplative seconds before he shrugs again.  “Nemetons that lead to Heaven don’t necessarily attract _good_ people.  They attract all sorts, anyone they can touch.  And then… imagine getting drawn in, and maybe you’re content with your life, maybe you’re not, but either way you start feeling a sense of peace, a feeling of… all is right with the world and you can’t really think of anything left to do and eventually you’re ready.  Ready to just… go to sleep and let go, because there’s the promise of something better waiting on the other side.”

Stiles does look at him now, meeting Peter’s horrified gaze with that same half-smile.  “Get it now?  Nemetons like those – they take your will to live.  They _mean_ well.  Probably.  For old couples who’ve lived a long, fulfilling life, dying in the vicinity of a Nemeton like that is the best thing in the world.  It eases pain and lets you die in peace.  But Heaven is a final resting place for souls.  Kind of pointless if they make you restless instead.  And Nemetons don’t care who gets caught up in the light.  Not to mention there’s no actual guarantee that you _will_ go to Heaven once you die, but most people don't know that, or they don't believe in the first place, and even if they do, I doubt they could resist the pull anyway.”

Stiles takes a step away from the Nemeton.  “But that’s all I needed to know from this.”

Peter blinks.  “…To know if this is a gateway to Heaven or Hell?”  He glances at it again.  Thinks of this town, once his home, and all the fucking tragedy in it.  “ _I_ could’ve told you which one it is.”

Stiles looks almost amused.  “I guess.  There’s too much chaos here for this to be anything else.”  Light shifts with the sway of the trees, and the angel’s winged shadow cuts across the clearing for a moment.  He laughs again, sharp and short and a little mean.  “Closest I’ve been to home sweet home in a very long time.”

Peter… doesn’t know what to say.  Stiles rarely talks about his time in Hell, and even when he does, it’s only ever in passing.  _Peter’s_ certainly not stupid enough to pester the fallen angel for information about that.  So he does the next best thing and diverts the conversation.

“You said someone shut it down?”  He enquires, studying the stump more closely.  He… can’t really tell if there’s a difference to, well, anything.  It looks like a regular tree stump to him, the same as it’s always been for as long as he’s known it was here, although he can also sense power from it, faint, like the last vibrations of an echo of a shout in the mountains.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, brow knitting a little.  “And actually _that’s_ what I wanted to know.  I sensed it the last time we were here, the Nemeton, but it was muted, not like the gates were shut but like something was standing in the way, so I thought it wouldn’t be a problem.  At least not for a while.”

“But it’s a problem now?”  Peter surmises.

“It’s a problem now,” Stiles agrees with a cold smile.  “Because someone’s removed the sacrifice.  Or maybe…” His eyes trace something only he could see, away from the Nemeton and beyond the tree line.  “Or maybe it escaped.”

“…Sacrifice?”  Peter repeats warily.

Stiles glances at him.  “Well yes.  You don’t think anyone would _willingly_ _choose_ to stand at the gates of Hell, do you?  Do you have any idea how much torture that is on a soul?”  He cocks his head.  “Well, no, I suppose you don’t.  So take it from me – even at the outermost reaches of Hell, it’s no picnic there.  Somebody confined something here, something alive of course, and I don’t know if it was a deliberate sacrifice or not, but it served as a good enough deterrent.”

He scrutinizes Peter more closely this time.  “Some things still slipped through though.”

Peter doesn’t need it spelled out for him.  He jaw clenches.  “The fire?”

Stiles hums noncommittally.  “Something drew Kate Argent’s attention here.  The Hales weren’t the only prominent pack in America after all, even if her goal was to take down one of those.  And Derek doesn’t seem the type to be subtle about anything, yet he managed to hide his entire secret relationship with a hunter from a pack of werewolves?  From _you?_   I doubt it.  Most likely, there was some interference from the Nemeton, kept you from noticing things you normally would, kept you distracted.”

He shrugs.  “Unlike Derek, Hell _does_ know subtlety.”

Peter says nothing.  He doesn’t move.  For a long, still moment suspended in time, he thinks he’s even stopped breathing and his heart has stopped beating.  There is no anger.  There is no grief.  There’s only a numbness that sinks down to the marrow of his bones until he feels like he’s floating and drowning at the same time.

And then there’s a hand at the back of his neck, anchoring him back in his body, flinging him back into the present, and he finds himself choking on nothing, gasping for air that he’s had all along.

He still hates the Argents.  He will hate the Argents until the end of eternity.  It isn’t even because he loved his family excessively.  God only knows he had his disagreements with them, and there were times he hated almost every last one of them for how they treated him, like an outcast, like something to be scorned, like he was never good enough in their eyes no matter what he did for them.

But they were _his_.  His Pack.  His family.  His to love as he wished, his to hate as he wished, his to cause trouble for, his to protect.  And Kate Argent took them away from him, set his world on fire and didn’t even have the decency to make sure she did the job properly.  Probably left him to suffer on purpose, figuring she could always come back to kill him later.  Like he was a mere afterthought, when really, she left the most dangerous member of the Hale Pack alive.

Well he sure showed her, didn’t he?  He made sure she paid for it tenfold, and Stiles promised him even back then that a soul like Kate Argent’s could only be headed one way and it certainly wasn’t up.

But this.  This Nemeton, this gateway to Hell.  It played a part in the fire too, however small, but what is Peter supposed to do about that?  He can hardly carry out revenge against it.  Probably wouldn’t be conducive to his continued wellbeing anyway.  And it isn’t actually Hell’s fault for doing what it’s designed to do.

He inhales again, a shuddering breath that scrapes against his throat, and only then does he realize that he’s pressed his face against Stiles’ neck, and Stiles is _letting him_.

Just like that, all the tension bleeds out of him, and he slumps against the angel like his strings have been cut.  Stiles can be kind, but he’s rarely, _rarely_ ever this brand of kind, and Peter isn’t above taking advantage of it while he can.  He’ll probably pay for it later, as if Stiles has to prove that he isn’t going soft or something by letting Peter see this side of him, or he might not, and life will go on.  But for now, Peter clutches at Stiles’ shirt in one white-knuckled grip and leans against the angel who holds him up with the ease of someone capable of carrying something a thousand times his weight.  Neither of them speaks, and Peter is grateful for it.  He doesn’t do something as maudlin and dramatic as cry, and normally, he thinks he’s past most of this, this trauma from the fire, but once in a while, one of the scars in his mind left by the slaughter of most of his pack and then the subsequent abandonment of the rest still rips itself open again and leaves him feeling like he can’t breathe.

But Stiles is a solid, unyielding line against him, always has been in one way or another, and that’s reassuring in and of itself.  The angel doesn’t say a word, not of comfort nor of disdain, but even after Peter’s breaths even themselves out again and he feels more stable, Stiles doesn’t push him away until Peter pulls away himself.  He doesn’t go far, not even a step, even when Stiles relinquishes his grasp.

He feels a flicker of embarrassment – he’s never been one for emotional outbursts of any kind – but it fades again almost as quickly because one of the first things Stiles took from him was shame.

Not that Peter had much of that to begin with of course, but there isn’t really anything left to feel ashamed about in front of someone whom you’ve literally bared every part of yourself to at one point or another, physically, emotionally, and mentally, willingly or otherwise.

(It’s always willing in the end.  Stiles makes sure of that.)

“…Who summoned this one?”  Peter asks quietly.  “This Nemeton?”

A sigh rustles its way out of Stiles, but when Peter looks over, the angel just shakes his head.  “I don’t know.  There’s no real way to tell unless you ask a demon who was there at the time if they remember, and usually they don’t.  All humans are the same to them.  I mean, you don’t remember every individual piece of food you eat or even just see when you’re reading a menu or something, do you?  I might’ve been able to track them down from any residue magic left by whoever did the summoning if the Nemeton was more recent, but this one is old, very old.  It feels like it was here before this town even existed.  So there’s no way for me to tell.”

Peter nods a little.  Well.  If it was that long ago, then at least whoever summoned this godforsaken gate has to be long dead by now.  And even if it was – by Stiles’ standards – ‘more recent’, Peter’s listened to his mother telling him about how _her_ mother passed the Nemeton guarding duty onto her and her siblings.  ‘More recent’ by Stiles’ standards is already a lifetime or two for Peter, and therefore the summoner would be dead either way.

“Come on, let’s go,” Stiles prompts, more briskly this time.  “Proximity to this thing isn’t doing you any favours.”

Which… makes sense too.  You’d have to be more emotionally vulnerable for something to take advantage of you, right?

They leave the clearing.  Peter actually finds himself breathing a little easier – as if some invisible smog has lifted – the farther they get from the Nemeton.

They don’t get that far though.  Twenty feet or so back the way they came and Peter stiffens when he picks up the sound of an approaching heartbeat, head swinging to the right even as he expands his senses to their limits.  Whoever it is is angling towards the Nemeton, not them, but Peter can tell the exact moment they hear Peter and Stiles in return because they start circling towards them instead.  Another two seconds and Peter knows exactly who it is.

His shoulders drop, a snarl stirring deep in his chest, but he looks to Stiles first, who merely raises an eyebrow at the face flashing through Peter’s mind.  “Well, he seems keen to meet us.  It’s only polite to see what he wants.”

Peter snorts but rolls his shoulders instead and moves to stand beside Stiles.  It only takes another minute or so before he hears footsteps as well, cautious and slowing to a prowling walk as the werewolf gets closer, until finally they come to a halt behind a crop of trees on the far right at their backs.

Peter rolls his eyes.  “Not even going to say hello, Deucalion?”

A beat, two, then a man steps out from between two trees, dressed in conservative, comfortable clothes with his hands at his sides to show no ill-intent, although there’s a wariness in his eyes that remains sharp on both of them.

“Peter,” He greets reservedly before his gaze moves to Stiles again, who smiles prettily back at him.

The British accent is the same, Peter notes, and overall, he _looks_ the same, but older, which Peter didn’t expect.  Werewolves live longer lives than humans do, and even just a decade shouldn’t really wear on one of their kind the way time seems to have done to Deucalion.  He seems thinner, just a little, and there’s a… an almost frail sort of mindfulness in the slant of his shoulders where – from what Peter remembers – there was only pride before.

Also-

“I thought you said he was blind,” Stiles remarks, observing Deucalion with a vague sort of interest.

“He was, last I heard,” Peter says, also peering at the other werewolf.  Deucalion’s always been a calm one, at least on the surface, maintaining a composed temperament that even Talia was hard-pressed to match at times, although considering the turn he’s taken with his principles since his pack was slaughtered, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if the man’s become more volatile.

Still, Deucalion barely reacts now, nothing beyond another glance that bounces between them before he nails on a charming smile that’s barely even skin-deep and turns to Stiles once more, “I don’t believe we have met before.  My name is Deucalion.”

“Hmm,” is all Stiles says in return before he’s suddenly eight feet out from where he was half a millisecond ago and standing mere inches in front of Deucalion instead, one hand seizing one of the werewolf’s wrists before Deucalion can – several belated seconds later – do more than jerk back, a futile reflex that almost costs him a dislocated shoulder if the wince is anything to go by.

“Stiles,” Stiles introduces himself with perfunctory cheer even as he lifts Deucalion’s arm to eye-level before yanking up the sleeve in one smooth motion.  “And I am very excited to know – who did _this?_ ”

Deucalion goes rigid, tugging uselessly at the limb caught in Stiles’ grasp even as his eyes flash red.  Peter growls a warning but doesn’t bother doing more than that.  Stiles can turn the werewolf to ash before any of them can blink.

Instead, he wanders closer as well, curious about what Stiles is looking at, and then he catches sight of Deucalion’s arm, and his eyes widen.  “Stiles, that’s-”

“Yes,” Stiles agrees, still staring unblinkingly at Deucalion.  “An answer, if you, please, mortal.”

Deucalion stares, alarmed with an edge of fury so potent Peter has to wrinkle his nose.  The man stays silent though, which isn’t – in Peter’s opinion – very wise, and he’s proven correct a moment later when Stiles loses patience and, with a deft twist of his hand and a flash of dark bronze eyes, puts Deucalion on his knees, tearing a choked shout from the werewolf right before sinking nails into the symbols etched on pale skin and tearing those out too.

Deucalion screams, a shocked, hoarse sound that thins out into a pitiful keen as Stiles drops him with a carelessness one would usually reserve for a bag being dumped on the ground or some other object being discarded.  Stiles doesn’t even look down at where the werewolf is lying prone on the grass, all his attention focused on the glowing white symbols hovering in the air above his hand instead.

Peter watches, as mesmerized by the symbols as he is by the offhand innate cruelty that Stiles is so good at tucking away when he wants to.  As if Deucalion isn’t even worth the effort of intentionally hurting.  Peter’s seen it before and will see it again, but it enthralls him every time it happens.

The strange thing is, it’s never been directed at him.  Even when Stiles hurts him, it’s always deliberate, calculated, all that too-much otherworldly attention honed in on Peter, on pushing Peter to the brink and then right over the edge, on making Peter _crave_ it long after his mind is incapable of even thinking of anything else.  When Stiles is like that, with Peter, the angel’s regard is single-minded in its heavy, all-consuming intensity, as if nothing _else_ in all the world matters.

Peter’s never been nothing to Stiles, and that’s a heady kind of power all on its own, especially whenever he sees how Stiles treats other people, with not even half as much hunger and want and care as he does Peter – _careful_ when he hurts him, just as careful when he brings him back.  And all Peter really hopes for is that it will last.

“Peter, come here,” Stiles calls, waving the hand that’s… holding? the symbols ripped from Deucalion’s arm.  Peter lopes over, ignoring the way Deucalion is hunched over around his arm at Stiles’ feet in favour of studying the symbols with an inquisitive eye.

“That’s Enochian then,” He muses, one hand coming up to press against the mark on his neck.

“Yes, but not like that one,” Stiles casts him a mildly amused look.  “This one’s a… binding, you could say.”

Peter stares avidly at the written language.  He’s been trying to learn, after asking Stiles, who agreed to teach him, but it’s slow-going.  Something about Enochian, Stiles said, just doesn’t compute in human minds.  Peter’s still making the attempt though.  Stiles says it’s still possible, and if nothing else, Peter can definitely recognize the symbols on his own skin even though Stiles has yet to tell him what they mean.

(Peter suspects it’s a name.)

“You’re not sure?”  He asks instead.

Stiles makes a disgusted face.  “No, it’s not a direct translation, mostly because whoever carved these had no fucking clue what they were writing.  It’s like they… used a translation dictionary – and a _bad_ translation dictionary at that, which isn’t surprising, it was probably written by another human – but they used that, for a language they knew nothing about, and then they wrote a sentence just by looking up the definitions of each word.  No grammar, no diction, no _punctuation_ – it’s shoddy work.  They’ve basically butchered my language, _ugh_.”

Peter huffs a breath of laughter at the petulant expression on Stiles’ face.  “I’m sure they’ll apologize once you have a proper chat with them.”

“They better,” Stiles scowls before flapping his hand and dispersing the Enochian letters like scattered fireflies.  “They weren’t even properly set into the soul.  If they were, even I wouldn’t have been able to pull them out so easily.”

Peter mulls this over for a moment.  “So… if they weren’t properly set, or even properly worded, then the binding itself…?”

“-isn’t a proper binding,” Stiles finishes.  “It’s like tying someone up with really loose rope.  Well no, not like that.  More like… tying up a hostage that you want to keep alive, but you tie the rope too tightly and you risk strangling them or something.  Yeah, that’s a closer analogy.  Either way, like I said, shoddy work.”

“What-” A voice rasps from below, teetering off the tail-end a cough.  “What does that mean?”

Stiles blinks down at Deucalion like he completely forgot the werewolf was even there.  “Um.  Well.  Whoever carved those into you was _trying_ to bind your powers – not completely, more like, from what I could see, they were just trying to halve your Alpha strength and speed and healing, etcetera, etcetera, and I think there was also a component for binding you _to_ someone so you’d have to obey them, but most human names don’t have an equivalent in Enochian so that didn’t work out either, I mean seriously, that bit was Latin for some reason?  They substituted a word in Latin because they couldn’t write it in Enochian?  And not even just that; there was no ‘Scott’ back in the day, so this bozo wrote the genitive form of ‘Scotsman’ instead!  In what world does that seem like a reasonable thing to do?  It’s totally wrong!  So you!  You probably feel compelled to obey whoever but it’s never been an iron-clad thing, right?  You could circumvent orders if they weren’t exactly worded?  Bottom line, they botched the whole binding, and… well I think it was basically leeching your life energy away.  Very slowly, because the sealing was regular-human-powered and not done right, but still.”

For a long minute, Deucalion just stays where he is and breathes.  He’s managed to prop himself up onto one elbow, and Peter only smells a faint whiff of pain from the man now, but otherwise, he doesn’t move.

Stiles rocks back on his heels, glances at Peter, who shrugs, and then leans over with some pointed throat-clearing.  “You still haven’t answered my question.  Who did the binding?”

Peter gives it a moment, then, “You know, I could swear you were smarter than this a decade ago.”

Deucalion finally raises his head, shoots a faintly annoyed look at Peter, and then switches over to Stiles.  There’s knowledge there, in his gaze; unlike Derek, it seems Deucalion has managed to at least guess what Stiles is, and he isn’t shying away from it.  There’s – sensibly – fear there too, but his voice is steady enough when he answers, “Alan Deaton.”

Somehow, Peter isn’t surprised.

“Scott’s boss?”  Stiles asks, looking somewhat doubtful.  “That vet that Derek thought was the Alpha?”

“He’s a druid,” Peter clarifies.  “Also, it could be said that he used to be the Hale Pack’s emissary, but he was…” His lip curls.  “-unattached to our pack.  He insisted on staying neutral even though Talia went to him for advice many times.  We never really told the children about him though.  Deaton was a resource, an ally, and it was one of those things that the kids didn’t really need to concern themselves with until they at least graduated high school and started learning about pack politics and such.  I started learning early about those kinds of things because I wanted to, but it was never something Talia required of her children, so Derek wouldn’t have known.  Laura did, but that’s hardly of any consequence now.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows.  “Huh.  I… didn’t really sense that much power in Deaton.  Which makes sense for a druid but-”

He drops fluidly into a crouch and reaches out to snag Deucalion’s other sleeve.  This time, Deucalion gives his limb over without protest, although he twitches like he’s bracing for another round of crippling agony.

Peter smirks a little at the sight.  It’s not that he particularly dislikes Deucalion, but he certainly doesn’t like him either.  His opinion of the man has never been all that high, especially after the werewolf insisted on meeting with a hunter, and not just any hunter but Gerard Argent himself, who even back then had a bad reputation in supernatural circles.  Never any proof of course, only hushed disturbing rumours that Deucalion obviously never listened to, and he was idealistic in a way that Peter hasn’t been since he was a child and still thought his parents could love him as much as they did his other siblings if only he tried hard enough.  But even as a kid, he doesn’t think he was ever so naïve as to believe in a world where there could be peace between werewolves and hunters everywhere.

“It’s so bad I feel like I’m reading another language entirely,” Stiles complains, squinting at Deucalion’s bare arm.  “Or maybe a kid’s finger-painting.”

Peter snickers.  He would absolutely love to be there if Stiles says that to Deaton’s face.

“Will you take that out too then?”  Deucalion enquires in determinedly neutral tones.

Stiles glances at him.  “Well I dunno.  I could of course, or-” An abrupt grin flashes white teeth and bronzed eyes.  “-I could redo the binding so that it actually works.  I certainly don’t need two to make sure it sticks this time.”

Deucalion stiffens, and its coupled with a sharp inhale through his nose, like he’s fighting against every instinct he has not to try and pull away again.

Stiles’ grin just widens.  “It really just depends – what information can you give me, and will it be worth my generosity?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad to see people liking this :) Obviously, it's not as popular as some of my other fics but it's nice to still have some encouragement for this one since I'm venturing into territory I haven't really written in before. Comments give my confidence a boost so thank you ^_^


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the last chapter I (mostly) finished back in November, and since I definitely won’t have time for a Valentine’s Day fic this year because of midterms and essays (this week is gonna kill me if it doesn’t kill my grades), I’ve cleaned this up, finished the end, and decided to post it. Again, this is my experimental fic where I push myself to write stuff I’m not entirely comfortable with writing, so if the sex scene (holy god I spent so much time writing and rewriting that) makes you giggle, I won’t blame you.
> 
> (Also word count for this chapter is 12345, which amuses me since I never even planned it that way.)

 

As it turns out, Deucalion knows quite a lot.  Stiles can of course read minds, like he does Peter’s all the time, but it’s usually only the surface thoughts and emotions that he gets, or whatever the person is specifically thinking of at the time.  Deliberately delving deeper tends to be bad news for the average brain.  Peter should know; he’s seen it happen.  He’s fully aware that Stiles could rip whatever information he wants straight out of Deucalion’s head if he so chooses, but that would most likely leave the werewolf a drooling mess, and who wants to clean that up?  Especially when they’re planning on sticking around for at least a little while longer, and attracting the wrong kind of attention at this early a stage is just plain annoying.  Unlike Peter, Deucalion doesn’t have Stiles’ mark on him, he isn’t anywhere near as wholly and thoroughly consumed by the angel as Peter’s long since accepted himself to be, and it’s highly doubtful Stiles would even try to be delicate about rifling through Deucalion’s head.  Half the time, Peter barely even feels it anymore when Stiles combs through his thoughts, and ultimately, it isn’t as if there’s anything he truly wants to hide from the angel, but Deucalion is another matter entirely.

So it’s just much easier to simply _persuade_ the older werewolf to talk.  Not that he needs much persuading.  Threat of torture, bribe of freedom, and the man is singing like a canary.  Or at the very least revealing the shitstorm Beacon Hills has been entrenched in, one disaster after another, starting with Deucalion’s contribution to the whole mess, which included a darach that one of his collection of Alphas inadvertently brought with them.

“I take it back,” Peter says flatly, staring fixedly at Deucalion once the older werewolf finishes a succinct account of what the Alpha Pack came to this town to do.  “He wasn’t much of an ally to my old pack after all.  Not if he can betray Talia as easily as he did.”

Deucalion’s eyes glint red when they look at him but he doesn’t say a word, ever mindful of Stiles’ presence beside Peter.

Stiles hums, absently fiddling with a loose thread on his shirt from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the grass.  “And you stayed as penance for your actions after getting your eyesight back and feeling sorry for everything you did.  How quaint.”  He sighs.  “Humans.  Never carry out anything to the bitter end.  It’s like conviction just isn’t in your vocabulary.”

Peter clears his throat, mildly affronted.  Stiles’ lips twitch, and he gives Peter’s knee a few pats before reaching for Peter’s hand and lacing their fingers together.  Peter’s hard-pressed to hide a smile.  He likes it when Stiles gets affectionate with him in public.  There’s nothing clingy or over-the-top about it but it’s nice when Stiles flaunts a little of what they are in front of other people.  The expressions on their faces are just bonus entertainment.  It always amuses Peter to know that when most people look at them, all they see is an older man taking advantage of a kid, when really, they couldn’t be farther from the truth.  Sometimes, Stiles even lets Peter play at being the dominant one in their relationship while the angel pretend-blushes under Peter’s leering attention, and it never fails to leave a trail of scandalized citizens in their wake.  A few times, someone even called the cops on Peter, only Stiles’ IDs always prove him to be at least eighteen, sometimes twenty, sometimes a very baby-faced twenty-five, and then Stiles amuses both of them some more by pranking whoever decided to stick their nose in business not their own, once by having all of one lady’s bdsm porn history splashed across her company’s computer screens, another time by delivering evidence of a man’s two ongoing affairs with other men to the idiot’s wife, yet another by sending a very religious woman to church while she was inebriated to her gills and singing off-key about the joys of homosexuality.

Fallen angels, unsurprisingly, take humiliation to a whole different level.  Peter never minds.  He enjoys the hell out of every fallout he gets to witness and sometimes even participate in bringing about, and he loves watching the wicked delight that brightens Stiles’ eyes every time they wreak mayhem and fun wrapped in a ball of well-planned vengeance.

“I was wrong,” Deucalion says sharply, almost flinching when Stiles’ gaze slices back over to him but he manages to hold the reflex in.  “About Gerard Argent, and then about how I handled the consequences.  I am not too proud to admit that now.”

Stiles cocks his head, intent and unblinking, and then he quirks a slightly mocking smile.  “Ah, I see.  So that’s what happened.”

He glances at Peter.  “Your niece.  I told you that there’s something wrong with her.  Apparently, she’s blind.  Courtesy of-” He tips his head at Deucalion, whose features have gone very, very still.  “He meant it as a threat.  Threat-present.”  Stiles looks ponderously bemused.  “To get Derek and Scott together.  You know, safety in numbers, then there would be more tussling with the Alpha Pack, and all of it would give Scott the boost he’d need to become True Alpha, and then – with a bit of incentive on the side, mostly some more threats at the other people Scott cared about – he’d kill the darach, Derek, maybe Cora too, and join the Alpha Pack to keep his family and girlfriend safe.  And it sort of worked too.  Got derailed a bit near the end but you get points for succeeding at least halfway.”  Stiles beams a terrifyingly bland smile at Deucalion.  “It’s decent planning.”

Peter gives himself a moment to digest this.  Then another moment so he doesn’t just launch himself at Deucalion and kill the man where he sat.  Stiles wouldn’t like that.  The angel isn’t finished with Deucalion yet.

Peter doesn’t… He doesn’t actually remember what Cora looked like anymore, much less what a decade has added.  He’s sure he’d recognize her if he saw her now, by scent if nothing else.  But it’s strange – or perhaps not so strange – that even straight out of his coma, he could remember Derek and Laura just fine, because they were never in the fire, because his resentful fury crystallized around their betrayal and abandonment, because he anchored his entire revenge with all the things that made him angry, with all the people who wronged him, from Laura to Kate to the whole damn world in general.

But when it came to Cora, it was as if she died so many times in his nightmares, screaming and crying as the flames engulfed her, that a part of his mind tried to erase her from his memories as well.  Only his dreams – that have turned out to not be dreams after all – gave him any sort of reprieve, because in those, he always managed to save her.

Yet her face – and a few other relatives’, to a lesser extent – remains blurry to him.  He only has memories of brown hair and pale cheeks still rounded with baby fat and a penchant for sportier clothes than Laura ever wore.  He remembers her complaining about math and her love of chocolate and track and field and fantasy books, and he remembers her laughter, too loud at times, but she learned the most important things from him, and he made sure she knew self-worth, even at ten, knew to be unapologetic for who and what she is regardless of any judgement or disapproval aimed her way.

He also remembers her eyes, inquisitive brown to beta gold and back, and he tries to imagine them dulled to a murky grey instead, unable to see anything ever again.

“It was a mistake,” Deucalion interjects in low, measured tones.  “It’s why I stayed-”

“Does _staying_ give her back her eyesight?”  Peter snarls.

A finger taps the back of his hand, and he blinks out of his rage to find his fingertips clawed and digging into Stiles’ flesh.  If Stiles were human, Peter would’ve crushed his bones into tiny irreparable pieces.

He winces and makes to let go but Stiles doesn’t let him beyond getting him to loosen up his grip again.  The angel flicks a glance over Peter’s face before turning back to Deucalion, and it’s nothing short of a command when he tosses out lightly, “Continue.  Scott became Alpha, the darach restored your eyesight, you all fought, then she managed to escape, and you-” A taunt lurks at the edges of his mouth.  “-decided to stay.  Just like that?  After everything you did, I was so sure this story was going to end with you and your pack in a very deep grave.”  He tilts his head in consideration before conceding, “Or Scott and assorted company in a very deep grave.  Or both.”

Deucalion actually manages a thin smile this time.  “You are not entirely incorrect in your assumptions.  I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear that my pack did indeed end up in various graves.”

Stiles just arches an eyebrow in return.  “‘Glad’ isn’t the word I’d use, although I’m sure Peter here can appreciate the news.”

Peter grins, all teeth, eyes glittering.  “Saves me some time from doing it myself.  Also I’d have to go to the trouble of buying a shovel.  Might still have to.”

Stiles laughs softly and leans over to prop his chin on Peter’s shoulder even as his eyes slant back over to Deucalion’s tight features.  “So then?  _Continue_ , Demon Wolf.”

And Stiles seems to find the epithet even funnier, which – to a fallen angel – it must be.  Peter’s willing to wager that Deucalion doesn’t know the first thing about demons.

He wonders – if he asks – whether Stiles would agree to… _show_ Deucalion a thing or two about them.

Stiles hums in consideration, lips brushing the shell of Peter’s ear, and Peter calms, putting aside his more violent urges for now in favour of listening.

“Scott was… charitable enough to let me go, so long as I promised to… change my ways,” Deucalion tells them, and this time, there’s a strange twist to his expression, half-incredulity, half-contempt.  No gratitude.  “I gave my word, but I asked to stay.  Derek was… less than happy.  To make a rather contentious story short, Scott refused to allow your nephew to kill me and agreed instead when Alan Deaton suggested-” His arm lifts briefly from his lap.  “-these.”

Judging by how rigid his shoulders are, Deucalion doesn’t exactly agree, but the man leaves out his own opinion, and neither Stiles nor Peter asks for it.  In fact, Stiles, Peter checks with a sidelong glance, actually already seems fairly bored with this entire tale, as if he’s heard such accounts of redemption before and doesn’t particularly care to hear another one yet again.  Peter can’t say he cares overly much either.  He already knows that Scott has the deplorable tendency to get into bed with the enemy – certainly not just figuratively, nauseatingly enough, Peter made the mistake of shadowing Scott to the Argents’ house once when the boy snuck out in the middle of the night only to climb into Allison’s bedroom via window, and Peter consequently got an earful he really could’ve done without – and not just that but also stick his head in the sand and completely ignore what that enemy has done, what that enemy is capable of doing and will probably do again, but he was omega back then, not even beta, so Peter didn’t see too much of a problem with it.  If the boy wanted to put himself in danger like that, well, he made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Peter, and only obligation and a lack of options spurred Peter towards wanting anything to do with Scott.

But Scott is Alpha now, has been Alpha for three years or so, and these are the decisions he makes for the good of those under his protection?  They aren’t even a proper pack – that much is clear – but Scott is still the only Alpha in Beacon Hills, which makes every last supernatural creature and supernatural adjacent living in this town his responsibility.  Even just from an objective point of view, letting a man who deliberately blinded someone that Scott has had a duty to put first since he became Alpha _live_ , a man who was responsible for slaughtering far too many innocent packs when he led the Alpha Pack over the course of at least six years, and not just live but _stay_ in the same piece of territory, is so foreign a concept to Peter that he can’t even decide if he feels more bewildered or revolted.

It certainly doesn’t help that the victim in question is his favourite niece.

"It's hardly surprising," Deucalion says abruptly in the ensuing, slightly stupefied lull.  "Gerard Argent is still alive, even after all the damage he wrought here.  Placed in a nursing home, I believe, after he attempted a ritual that would make him an Alpha werewolf using the blood of a born werewolf – your nephew, in fact, Peter – but Scott poisoned him with wolfsbane earlier, resulting in his body rejecting the change.  He was healed by his son about half a year ago, brought back as an ally before being shot, this time by Christopher.  Scott insisted he not be killed though and instead returned him to the nursing home once again.  And as far as I know," The werewolf glances distastefully at the remaining seals on his arm.  "He does not even have these, although I suppose, at this point, he wouldn’t need them.  So long as nobody heals him again."

For a long moment, Peter is rendered speechless.  Then the rage sets in and nearly chokes him, because he knows Kate Argent was responsible for the massacre of most of his pack, but only an idiot would think for even a second that Gerard didn't at least know about it, didn't _approve_.

"That is one human I would not mind setting aside some time to hunt down," Stiles remarks, and Peter forces himself to take a deep breath.  He turns his head and noses at Stiles' temple instead, breathing in slowly before exhaling again.

Stiles tilts his head and catches his eye.  "Some people live longer than they should, that's all."

Peter pulls back and even manages a smile.  "Of course."

Stiles rolls his eyes, and there's a warning in there somewhere, but it's fleeting, and Stiles is directing raised eyebrows at Deucalion again soon enough.  "Are you part of his pack then?"  Dark amusement flash through his eyes.  "Even if you are, it's not of your own free will, I don't think."

Deucalion automatically bristles, and Peter doubts he's thought his words through when he snaps back, "And Peter?  Is he your pet of his own free will?"

Just like that, everything goes silent.  A burst of wind makes the trees the crack and groan, but birdsong falls flat, and the rush of a nearby river seems suddenly muted.  An almost ominous chill washes through the clearing, and Peter watches as a flinch ripples across Deucalion's face even as the werewolf flounders for a recovery.

Stiles just smiles though, charming, careless, deceptively light, and Peter doesn’t have to smell the undercurrent of violence on him to recognize that this is Stiles at his most dangerous.  Peter makes sure to keep his breathing steady and his body relaxed, even if he can't prevent his scent from twisting with the beginnings of something just short of fear.

"He's not my _pet_ ," Stiles says with the lofty condescendence of a statement that anyone with an ounce of sense should already know.  "He's _mine_ , and that's all that really matters."  His smile widens until it looks almost too large for his face, and it's times like this that Peter wonders if angels can forget how the parts of a human body fit together.  "Peter agrees, doesn't he?"

Peter shrugs gracefully, meeting Deucalion's look of veiled disbelief evenly.  "Obviously.  Would I be here otherwise?"

Because he knows.  If he was really against it, against this, he could always choose death, and he's even fairly certain Stiles would let him go if he reached that kind of impasse.  Not anymore – Peter is Stiles’ now, collared and kept – but once, at the beginning, when neither of them were quite so attached, when the angel mostly just wanted to teach Peter a lesson, Stiles probably would’ve let Death take him without too much of a fuss.

Peter enjoys living though, those six years and a handful of times throughout his life notwithstanding, and nobody's ever going to accuse him of a lack of self-preservation, but there are some things worse than death.  He thinks – if it was up to him, if he could've forced Laura to do what he wanted – he would've chosen a mercy-kill rather than suffer those six agonizing years in a hospital full of strangers touching him every day and the threat of hunters forever hanging over his head while nightmares plagued him with every breath he took.

Being with Stiles is nowhere near as bad.  Of course, he supposes that was the entire point of the fallen angel taking him in and breaking him down and then rebuilding him into what he is now.  Better, in some ways, but still broken in others.  Peter doesn't usually dwell on it.  It is what it is now, and there's no going back.  He likes to think that what's important here is that he doesn't _want_ to go back, and whether that's his own decision or a Stiles-influenced one or – most likely, if he's honest – a mix of both, he figures it doesn't actually _matter_ anymore.

"Exactly," Stiles beams, a direct contrast to the burn of light in his eyes that pins Deucalion in place as effortlessly as any mounted insect to a board.  “Now, if your curiosity is satisfied,” It isn’t, Peter can tell, and it isn’t even _curiosity_ , per se, but this time, Deucalion’s smart enough to keep his trap shut.  “I’d like to know what Gerard actually did here.  Because for a town where the reigning Alpha seems to be letting every murderer and psychopath go free,” Stiles inhales like he’s breathing in the very essence of this town.  “There’s an awful lot of blood in the air.”

Deucalion manages a nod that’s a little too jerky to look natural before launching into yet another recount of what he knows of the events shortly after Kate Argent was killed and her crimes went live across the States.  And that’s how they learn about the short but vicious war Gerard waged in the few months he was here, about how he manipulated his granddaughter into helping him, about Victoria Argent’s death, and finally about the casualties.

Even Stiles stares for several incredulous seconds once Deucalion is finished, and Peter knows for a fact that the angel doesn’t actually care that much about the people in Beacon Hills.  Even the ‘friends’ he made during his stint in high school here were just people he used to pass the time with, no matter how much he liked them, and he didn’t even like them _that_ much.  Most humans, Peter muses with a brief surge of sardonic humour, probably really are akin to pets in Stiles’ mind.

“Jackson?  Jackson Whittemore?”  Stiles squints off into the distance like he’s trying to dredge up a memory that he once found too inconsequential to keep.  “Oh, that boy.  Lacrosse captain, all-around bully, very popular, terrible self-esteem because he knows he’s adopted and doesn’t know if his birth parents gave him up because they didn’t want him or because they died or what,” He says for Peter’s benefit.  “Probably undeserving of being turned into a monster and used to kill people.”

Peter frowns.  “But I never bit him.  The only one I ever gave the bite to was Scott.  How did he mutate into something like the kanima?”

Deucalion blinks at him, like he assumed Peter was exactly the reason why that boy had been running around as an out-of-control lizard.

Stiles hums thoughtfully, absently untwining and retwining the fingers of their clasped hands.  “Technically speaking, it’s not actually _just_ Alphas who can turn normal people into werewolves, and that goes for pretty much all shifters.  They just have a much higher chance of doing it than betas and omegas because the Creation – the magic – that makes werewolves werewolves is given a boost when a werewolf becomes an Alpha.  I suppose, in a way, the shapeshifter gene _is_ sort of like a disease, in that it can be transmitted through saliva into the blood, or even blood to blood if you’re lucky enough, or unlucky enough in this case, and I’m assuming that’s how Jackson was turned.  He had pretty deep claw marks in the back of his neck from where Derek hurt him after shoving him around – your nephew has serious anger management problems by the way – and the Cre- the _magic_ in those injuries wasn’t enough to turn him into a werewolf, or even turn him right away, but it did affect him, and coupled with how insecure the kid was, eventually, the gene mutated him into a kanima.  A monster without free will.”

He pauses.  “But like I said, it’s rare, for any beta or omega to be able to turn someone like that.  Probably why the lore was lost through time, but there’s plenty of stories out there of how a bite from any old werewolf can turn you.  Magic is partially fuelled by desire, and I’d say Jackson was probably pretty desperate for more power, in any way he could get it.  Foolish, but in my experience, most teenagers tend to be little else.”

Peter listens to it all intently, and a distracted glance at Deucalion tells him that the older werewolf is equally interested.

One of Peter’s favourite pastimes is listening to the things Stiles can tell him.  A being who existed possibly before the world even _began_ , with so much knowledge of their history, of creatures even Peter – as a werewolf – doesn’t know of, of the hidden mysteries tucked in the shadows, of what made them and what they’re like and how they’ve evolved, and when Stiles volunteers tidbits of information to him, or indulges him when Peter asks, he’s never disappointed by what the angel can tell him.

“He’s dead?”  Stiles asks, more rhetorical than anything else.  “Jackson?  And Isaac was tortured?”

Deucalion inclines his head.  “He is no longer on speaking terms with Scott, barring absolute necessity, to the point where he moved out of their house and has been living with Derek and Cora for several years now.”

“Lasting damage?”

“Quite.”

Stiles actually squints like he’s trying to figure out rocket science.  “I’ve heard about True Alpha Scott from two different sources now, three if you count Peter.  I knew him myself for a couple years, and I’m still not following.  Does the boy not know the bite can erase just about any injury?  If he doesn’t want to do anything permanent about Gerard, then at least he could give the bite to his own brother to heal him.  Or did Isaac not want it?”

Deucalion falters for a moment before shaking his head this time.  “I have not enquired directly, but I believe it was Scott who refused, not Isaac.  He – Scott – seems inordinately reluctant to give the bite to anyone.  He does have a beta he bit himself – a boy by the name of Liam Dunbar – but that was an accident.”

Stiles stares for a long, weighted second before derision curls at his lips, and his eyes darken with a bitter fire that makes the back of Peter’s neck prickle.

“Well,” Stiles mutters, almost to himself, and he’d sound amused if not for the distorted, ear-ringing echo of an age-old sort of fury behind it.  “Family hasn’t meant shit since the be **ginning of time.  Figures dear old Dad couldn’t get that right even with his precious humans.  Then again, I knew that already, and yet somehow, it still surprises me every time.  You’d think that sort of thing would get old after the first couple millennia.** ”

Peter can’t help twitching, everything becoming too much for his sense of hearing for one roaring, melting moment, and then he feels the puff of Stiles’ breath against his ear, and the pain recedes, leaving Peter blinking at the almost sheepish quirk of Stiles’ mouth as the angel pulls back again.

In contrast, Deucalion has his hands clapped to his ears, and Peter doesn’t need to look very hard to spot the trails of blood leaking out from behind them.

“Whoops,” Stiles says plainly, not sounding particularly sorry, but he does wiggle his fingers in Deucalion’s direction, and a moment later, the werewolf cautiously lowers his hands, looking somewhat disconcerted, no doubt by the lack of both pain and injury.

Peter huffs and tries not to think or feel too resentful.  Of course, Stiles picks up on it anyway and sends him a faintly exasperated eyeroll.  “I need him capable of speech, Peter.”

Oh.  Well.  That’s a little more acceptable, he supposes.

“Can I kill him after you’re done with him?”  Peter asks hopefully.

Deucalion sends him a flatly unimpressed look that just barely hides the uneasiness underneath.  Stiles’ smile is distinctly unpleasant.  “We’ll see.”

Peter settles.  Eighty-seven percent of the time, that means yes.  Judging by the way Deucalion pales, just a little, the man has probably guessed as much too.  But he doesn’t protest, smart enough to know that it won’t do him any good, and besides, they’re both werewolves, and they understand their traditions, their laws – blood for blood, and by pack right, even if the Hale Pack no longer exists, and Deucalion himself has no real pack to speak of, Peter – as eldest in the family – has every right to reap payment for what Deucalion did to his kin.

They hear about the nogitsune next, and Peter feels more than sees the way Stiles goes predator-still where he’s still draped along Peter’s side, genuinely interested for the first time since this conversation – or interrogation – began.

“After Jennifer kidnapped their parents,” Deucalion explains.  “Deaton convinced Scott, Isaac, and Allison to use the Surrogate Sacrifice Ritual to find them.  Unfortunately, this woke up the Nemeton and gave the nogitsune enough power to escape.  Coupled with how much weaker and susceptible to outside influences their minds became in the aftermath of the ritual, it was quite easy for the nogitsune to possess one of them.  We think it chose Allison because she was human, without the natural defenses afforded to a werewolf, but also not as physically weak as Isaac.”  He pauses.  “You can imagine the damage it left in its wake, especially using the body of an Argent.  When we finally managed to separate it from the girl, Allison fell into a coma and remains in the long-term care ward to this day.”

A moment of silence, and then Peter barks out a laugh at the sheer irony.  He hopes they gave her his old room.  Wouldn’t that just be a riot?

“What happened to the nogitsune?”  Stiles persists.

“It was recaptured,” Deucalion says.  “Currently, it is in Deaton’s possession, in his clinic.”

The twist of Stiles’s mouth is cynical.  “A creature of fire and wind and shadows, and you keep it locked up in a cage.  Well, that’s humanity for you.”

Deucalion doesn’t take offense.  Instead, he merely observes, “It would’ve killed us all.  Quite possibly slaughtered this entire town.”

“And why would it do that in the first place?”  Stiles counters in tones just shy of scathing.  “Kitsune don’t go on rampages for no reason.  Who imprisoned it the first time?  Who decided it would be a good idea to trap something still alive at the mouth of Hell and _leave it there?_ ”

His voice goes guttural for a chilling second before it smooths out again, and his smile returns.  “But betrayal makes the universe go round.  It wouldn’t be half as entertaining otherwise.  So then?  Who was it?”

Deucalion glances at Peter before looking back at Stiles.  “Noshiko Yukimura, a kitsune who moved to Beacon Hills around the same time that the nogitsune escaped, summoned that same nogitsune eighty years ago in an internment camp not far from this town to help her avenge her lover, who was killed by a werewolf, but… she did not wish to go through with it in the end.  By denying the nogitsune its end of the bargain however, she had no choice but to imprison it before it unleashed its wrath on her and everyone within the vicinity at the time.”

He stops.  Probably because Stiles has started laughing.

“No, no, go on!”  Stiles waves a hand, a vicious, contemptuous sort of glee lighting up his eyes.  “Tell me all about how a kitsune _changed her mind_ after sending for a nogitsune like it’s some regular _servant_ , and then punishing it for _doing its_ _job_.  You mortals!  You could give demons a run for their money!”

He cackles harder, and Deucalion can’t quite stop himself from cringing back a little, but Peter just stays put, stays still, and after a few more seconds of listening to the madness weaved through each laugh that seems less amused and more crazed with every passing heartbeat, he gives the angel’s a hand firm squeeze, and just like that, Stiles abruptly goes silent.

Peter tenses a little but relaxes again when Stiles just turns bronze eyes full of violence onto Deucalion again and doesn’t do anything else.  Doesn’t even breathe anymore, and against the heel of Peter’s palm, Stiles’ clockwork heartbeat stalls.

He wonders, sometimes, what happened to Stiles in the past.  It’s pretty clear _something_ did, something bad enough to trigger episodes like this, although Peter doesn’t know who or why or even when – before or after he fell, before or after he followed Lucifer into Hell.

But it’s ultimately none of his business, and he knows better than to push.

Stiles shakes his head.  His heartbeat starts again, and the pressure in the air finally recedes again.

“So what else?”  He prompts like nothing happened.  “The nogitsune was a couple years ago, right?  Anything else happen after that?”

The answer is – of course – yes.  Warily, Deucalion resumes his narration, telling them about a chimera boy named Theo who apparently used to know Scott and Isaac back in fourth grade, and he moved back in their senior year of high school, working his way into the McCall Pack and convincing Scott to trust him, only to stab him in the back – figuratively _and_ literally – later on, and it turned out he was working with three immortal scientists called the Dread Doctors – Stiles snorts here; apparently he knows of them, even if he hasn’t actually met them – who experimented on Theo and several other teenagers, all of whom died in the wake of Theo’s bid for Alphaship and the Dread Doctors’ plans to resurrect the Beast of Gévaudan, killed by one of the two for a variety of reasons ranging from Theo taking power from them and the Dread Doctors seeing no further use for their experiments.

“Sebastien Valet,” Stiles murmurs.  “Now there’s a name that brings back memories.  Serial killer werewolf in eighteenth-century France,” He adds with a glance at Peter.  “Nicknamed La Bête du Gévaudan.  His kill count reached the hundreds.  A brute of a monster, but, a magnificent one.”

He pauses, and another smile creeps in, this one more bemused than anything else.  “Things have a funny way of coming around though.”

Peter frowns a little.  “How so?”

Stiles’ eyes search his face.  “Sebastien Valet was the brother of Marie-Jeanne Valet.”

Peter’s frown deepens.  “…And?”

Stiles tips his head to one side, gaze still avid on every nuance of Peter’s expression.  “Marie-Jeanne Valet was called the Maid of Gévaudan in honour of killing her brother after she found out what he was doing.  After finding out _what_ he was – a werewolf.  And later,” He grins.  “Why, later, she went on to marry the man who first saved her and then introduced her to the supernatural and helped her kill the Beast.  That man’s name was Henri Argent, and _that_ , Peter, is how the modern-day Argent Empire began.”

Peter stares blankly for a long minute.  There are coincidences, and there is… _this_.  He doesn’t even know what to call this ridiculous twist of fate.  “…I suppose that’s where their hatred of all things werewolves come from?”

“At least partially, I would assume,” Stiles agrees.  “Time changes all things of course.  Even darling Marie wasn’t as fanatical as rumours of Gerard say _he_ is.  Allison is almost the spitting image of her actually.  I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when she walked into the classroom that first day of school.”

Peter’s jaw works for a moment.  “You _knew_ her?”

Stiles shrugs nonchalantly.  “We frequented the same town for a few years.  When she wasn’t hunting game for the kitchens – actual game, not werewolf pelts yet; this was back before she found out about the existence of the supernatural – anyway, she worked part-time in the local inn serving food and drinks for the patrons there.”  His lip curls.  “I found it prudent to take my leave after she started eyeing me rather suspiciously when she realized I wasn’t aging.  Hell of a woman.  Didn’t restrict herself to just werewolves either.  Got eighteen people burned at the stake for practicing witchcraft.  Although technically speaking, only eight of them were actual witches; the rest didn’t have a spark of magic in them.  Her werewolf count was even more impressive.  At least twenty-five packs fell to her bow and pike all over Europe.  Nothing left of them in the end but smoke and ashes.  And she and her husband taught their children everything they knew.”

Peter snarls.  Stiles doesn’t bat an eye.  “She now has a very cushy seat in Hell.”

Peter seethes, blood roaring in his ears, and he can’t help wishing Stiles had killed her before she procreated with that Argent.  “How can you be sure?  She could be-”

“Well I can sense these things, for one,” Stiles informs him, one eyebrow cocked.  “That’s how I know Kate’s in Hell too.  Don’t be boring, Peter, keep up.  And for another, she was quite persistent.  Knew I wasn’t human, so eventually, she caught up to me.”

Peter pulls up short.  Nobody catches up to Stiles.  Not unless the angel wants them to.

Stiles smirks.  “Let’s just say, I don’t appreciate being stalked.  Or, well,” He reaches out and rubs a possessive thumb along Peter’s jawline.  “Unless I make an exception of course.”

Peter coughs a little.  So, yes, he did stalk Stiles quite a bit before he found out what the pseudo-teenager was.  He told himself, back then, that it was to find out more about Scott, about the people in the boy’s life, who Peter should watch out for, and even who he might have to manipulate in order to get his unruly beta to cooperate.  Except for the fact that he didn’t follow Isaac or Melissa or the Sheriff or even _Allison_ – who may not have been a danger _then_ but her family certainly was – half as much as he did Stiles, and nowadays, he can admit that there was always something about the angel that fascinated him and drew him in like a moth to flame, and the only reason he didn’t burn up like one was because this flame decided to keep him instead.

(Or maybe he did burn again, except this flame just taught him how to live with fire in his veins.)

“Did it work?”  Stiles asks abruptly, turning back to Deucalion, although he lets his hand slide from Peter’s jaw to neck and down his back before dropping away again.  Scenting, werewolves would call it.  Claim.  And Peter always likes it when Stiles caters to his particular set of instincts.

“The Dread Doctors,” Stiles clarifies with a touch of impatience when Deucalion only blinks at him.  “Did they do it?  Did they bring back the Beast?  Who did they find for a host?”

Deucalion hesitates here, and then shakes his head.  “No.  We defeated them before they could.”

Peter arches an eyebrow.  Stiles’ eyes narrow.  “Are you sure?  For a pretty obvious yes or no question, you don’t sound very certain.”

“I…” Deucalion stops then starts again with another, firmer shake of his head.  “I am sure.  The majority of us are still alive after all; I very much doubt we would be if the Dread Doctors had succeeded.”

“Huh,” Stiles sounds doubtful, and there’s a peculiar frown knitting his brow but he lets it pass so Peter doesn’t say anything either.  Doesn’t mention how Deucalion’s scent goes confused for a moment, which is just… weird.

This whole town is weird in one way or another, but then, Peter knew that back when he was still a child.  Still, this is weirder than the norm.

“Is that it?”  Peter asks somewhat testily.  It doesn’t quite sit well with him, that his old home, his old pack’s territory, is so overrun by outsiders these days, wide open and badly protected as it is.  The lands his ancestors, his sister, his family, he himself once guarded now seem more like the butt of some cosmic joke than anything else, and for Peter, even with only negligible attachment to the place, it still chafes to see just how irresponsible and _incapable_ the Alpha who has inherited Beacon Hills is.

“More or less,” Deucalion confirms.  His gaze slides back to Stiles.  “Although there is… an ongoing situation at the moment.”

Peter exchanges a look with Stiles.  Well, _something_ made Beacon Hills cry loud enough to annoy the angel into coming back.

“And that would be?”  Stiles prompts when nothing else is immediately forthcoming.

Deucalion is silent for a few beats longer than strictly necessary.  And then he says simply, “I wouldn’t know.  I can’t remember.  For any other answers, you will have to speak to Lydia Martin.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, Deucalion isn’t able to tell them much else.  Stiles looks torn between intrigued and irritated – Peter guesses that even surface-diving into Deucalion’s head isn’t doing any good, which means the older werewolf is being honest when he says he can’t remember.  That Lydia – their resident banshee, Peter called it four years ago, when she would’ve been his failsafe – has been having flashes of certain people who should be in their lives but no one, not Deucalion, not Scott, can remember.  Lydia herself doesn’t, not really, she can’t give them names or even descriptions of their faces, she might not even realize who all is missing, but just the other day she asked when Scott’s mom was getting off work, except Scott’s mother died years ago in a car crash, Scott said, and everyone agreed, and before that, at school during lunchtime, at the local college they all go to now, she wanted to know why the twins weren’t in class, except none of them knew any twins, and Lydia couldn’t describe them when pressed for more details.

Nobody could decide whether Lydia was having hallucinations or they _all_ had some form of amnesia.  Nobody could decide which would be worse.

“You don’t remember the twins?”  Peter asks flatly.

Deucalion eyes him guardedly.  “Should I remember them?”

Peter looks at Stiles again, but the angel is staring off into the distance again, deep in thought, and isn’t paying either of them any mind, so Peter turns back to Deucalion and shrugs.  “Probably, considering they were part of your Alpha Pack.  I never met them personally but I did hear that your last two members were a pair of twins.  Unless there’s been another set of twins running around neck-deep in the supernatural.  I wouldn’t know about that.”

Deucalion is silent, something unsettled putting a few extra lines on his face.  “…I had a pack of three.  Myself, Kali, and Ennis.  The latter two having ended up – as you say – in very deep graves.”

Peter stares for a moment.  Doesn’t smell a lie.  He glances to the side again when Stiles clambers to his feet and absently hefts Peter up after him with a hand on his shoulder.  Deucalion is quick to rise as well, something a little more nervous entering his expression now that the conversation seems to be coming to an end.

“Well, that was fun,” Stiles chirps, clapping his hands together.  “But it’s getting late, I’m sure Peter’s hungry, and even I don’t like being this close to the Nemeton for any longer than necessary.  And _you_ must have something to be doing, right?”

It’s clear he doesn’t expect an answer, already turning away, but Peter isn’t surprised when Deucalion takes a step towards them, fists just barely hiding a hint of claws as he grinds out, “And the binding?”

Stiles pauses.  Peter says nothing, lips dammed over the fangs itching at his gums.

“Well, you _were_ pretty informative, I’ll give you that,” Stiles acknowledges, but when he turns back, there’s a dark sort of mirth in his eyes, ultimately cold and indifferent, like he never had any intention of freeing Deucalion from the very beginning, and Peter relaxes, a thrilled, feral grin splitting his features as he too whirls to face Deucalion, bloodlust stirring under his skin.

Deucalion’s shoulders hitch down, heartbeat hammering in Peter’s ears, and the man jolts like instinct’s telling him to run but logic’s telling him that it would be in vain.

“Now, now, none of that,” Stiles’ hand drops lightly onto Peter’s nape.  “You know we’re probably going to have to interact with Scott and his various misfits sooner or later, and starting off by telling them that their… vassal has been brutally torn apart is not a very nice way to make friends.”

Peter tries not to sulk.  He does grumble a bit, hands flexing, even as the weight of Stiles’ hand at his neck keeps his anger banked.

“But you _have_ been saying that you’re staying for the Hales,” Stiles muses, watching Deucalion with an expression that would not be amiss on a cat’s face when it has a rat cornered.  “And Peter’s a Hale.  Peter, how do you feel about having your own personal vassal?”

Peter only has to think about it for a second.  Deucalion’s face bleaches white.  Peter allows himself a slow smirk and lets his claws recede.  “I can’t say I’ve ever had one before so it could be an interesting experience.  I’d still prefer ripping his larynx out but I suppose this would be a decent substitute.”

The look Stiles casts him is halfway fond.  “Well, you never know.  Maybe he can be your going-away present when we leave.”

Peter stares crimson at the motionless figure standing in front of them.  “I’m already looking forward to it.”

“Awesome,” Stiles says cheerfully, and then he’s gone from Peter’s side and appearing again at Deucalion’s, who startles and automatically tries to throw himself away, but Stiles is too fast for him, one hand lashing out to snag the werewolf by the arm before his other hand comes forward and once again latches onto the symbols etched in Deucalion’s flesh.

“Wait-”

Stiles doesn’t wait.  Instead, he _pulls_ , outward, and Deucalion howls, so high a sound that it borders on a scream.  His knees buckle, and he crumples to the ground, folded over his arm now that Stiles has let go.  The angel doesn’t pay him one whit of attention, shattering the Enochian lettering instead with a squeeze of his hand before proceeding to sketch his own schematic, long, silver-blue strokes that criss-cross each other to form an intricate three-dimensional spiral pattern, and even from where Peter’s standing, he can feel the difference between these and the shoddy imitation that Deaton apparently tried his hand at, he can feel the thrum of power from them straight down to the root of his teeth, thick enough that he almost feels like he could chew on it.

He lopes over, curious, and Stiles lets him look his fill, lazily spinning it around and pointing out various spots and explaining them to Peter.

“That’s the core of the binding.  See how it anchors everything else?  You break that, and the whole thing starts corroding, so it’s the most important part.  Then you just work in all the other elements you want, like what you want to bind, what you want to take away – for now, I’ve just added betrayal restrictions, so if he does anything directly against your benefit, well, let’s just say he’ll be in for some very painful times.  You can always add or take away those restrictions because this bit I have here is who I’m binding him to, which by the way I think I’ll tie to your whole family?  For mortals, bloodline is always easier to translate into Enochian than a specific individual, and you probably want at least Cora to be able to boss him around, right?  And you share the same blood so I just need a drop of yours – thanks – and ba-da-boom ba-da-bing, you’ve got yourself one soul-binding, fallen angel style.”

Peter snorts, but he can’t take his eyes off the helix of symbols swirling above Stiles’ palm like a piece of abstract DNA.  The glow has darkened to a captivating claret colour with the addition of Peter’s blood, and it feels almost… familiar to Peter, like some fundamental part of him recognizes the binding as _his_.

He watches closely as Stiles toes Deucalion onto his back, and the werewolf’s still too out of it from the pain to really resist, although Peter can smell the fear on him, and see it too in the way his pupils have blown out.

“Now here’s the fun part,” Stiles grins at him, something vicious in the curve of his lips, and then he crouches down beside Deucalion and slaps the binding into the werewolf’s chest.

If Peter thought the man was screaming before, it had nothing on the wretched, rending wail that shreds its way up Deucalion’s throat before spilling out into the open like a gushing wound.  The werewolf writhes in agony, but he gets exactly nowhere, not with Stiles’ hand against his belly, holding him down against the forest floor as the binding sinks into Deucalion, through clothes and flesh and bone, and Peter doesn’t have to be able to see it to know that the symbols are being seared into Deucalion’s very soul, because as the binding digs deep and takes hold, Peter breathes in, and when he turns his focus inwards, he can feel something settle in his blood, tied to him now like the leather of a horse’s reins wrapped firmly around his hand.

For Deucalion, it must feel like hours before it’s over, although in reality, it only takes seconds, half a minute tops.  The glow fades, and Stiles withdraws his hands, dusting off his knees as he straightens to his full height again.  A sob hiccups its way out of Deucalion’s mouth as the man finally rolls onto his side again, each breath coming sharp and wet like he’s been stabbed.

Peter cants his head down at Deucalion’s prone form, wrinkling his nose before glancing at Stiles.  “Did I scream this much?”

Because he can’t really remember.  At times, it feels like his earlier days with Stiles were a blur of pain and pleasure and endless sweet torment.  Other times, he gets flashes of burning bronze eyes and shadowy arcs of wings, of kindness like hot knives and cruelty like silk on skin, of feverish kisses and fingers at his throat and darkness that drowned him over and over and over again with only Stiles there to grant him any sort of reprieve, of _good, Peter, you like that don’t you? just a little more, you’re mine now, all mine, aren’t you, my gorgeous wolf?_ – all of it standing out so starkly in his mind after he was shattered and reshaped and reborn, until all that was left in the end was defeat and acceptance and _yesyourspleaseallyours_ , so much so that he can’t even imagine _not_ remembering every moment in savage, crystallized detail until he tries to recall something specific.

Stiles hums an offbeat note before crowding close, hands framing Peter’s hips, mouth dropping to skim along Peter’s bare skin.  Peter shivers, already pressing forward, eyelids dipping to half-mast as he bares his neck for the angel.

“You screamed just enough,” Stiles purrs, reassurance and a smug sense of satisfaction all rolled into one.  He brushes kisses along his mark, not a binding but a claim, the one he set into Peter’s own soul barely three years ago even though it feels like forever.

“And it helped that you wanted it,” Stiles adds, taking a step back, hands dropping from Peter’s hips.  Peter immediately misses the heat of him, moulded against Peter’s body.  Stiles quirks a smile, and this one reaches his eyes, unhindered, and it never fails to give Peter a sense of accomplishment whenever it’s directed at him.  “We’ll head back to the hotel after this.  We’ve done enough today, I think.”

Peter nods, and they both turn back to Deucalion.  It’s far from the toughest day of work Peter’s ever had with Stiles, but somehow, he feels more tired than he thinks he would if he’d spent the afternoon getting rid of a coven of witches or subduing kelpies in the water instead.

It’s probably the effects of the Nemeton, combined with some of the things Deucalion’s told them.  Even disregarding the shock of finding out that his niece is now blind and it was due to this pathetic excuse for a man, there’s still the widespread amnesia and the absolute clusterfuck Scott McCall is making of the old Hale lands.

There’s literally been no good news today.

Deucalion groans.

Well, almost no good news.  Peter wonders if he can gift-wrap the werewolf and offer him to Cora.  People usually bring something when they visit each other after all.  As for Peter, he finds himself far more content with the thought that Scott – and by extension Deaton – has lost one of their pawns on whatever playing field they think they’re in control of, although Peter supposes Scott wouldn’t see it that way.  From everything he’s heard and observed about the boy, Scott probably thinks he’s granted Deucalion a wonderful chance at redemption.

But Peter’s not a priest, and they’re certainly not Stiles’ favourite kind of people either.  Deucalion wronged the Hale line, broke treaty and turned on them, hurt one of their pups, the only one left these days.  It isn’t up to Scott McCall to pass judgement.  Not here, and if God had any sense, He wouldn’t have given Scott authority over a tank of fish, much less actual people.

But God kicked Stiles out of Heaven, or at least He didn’t convince him to stay, and a mind like Stiles’?  Clever and ruthless and loyal in his own possessive way?  If nothing else, you wouldn’t want someone like that as an enemy, which means, clearly, God has the same sense He gave a lemming if He was willing to let a son like that walk away, for whatever reason, so Peter isn’t going to put much stock in His decisions.  That might be blasphemy, but Peter figures he’s got a one-way ticket to Hell anyway so it hardly matters in the short or long run.

For now, “Get up,” Peter orders, smirking when Deucalion doesn’t even try to fight the command, clambering unsteadily to his feet instead.

Stiles didn’t leave any room for flexibility.

Peter considers him for a long minute as Deucalion finds his bearings.  When the older werewolf finally looks up, there’s a resentful sort of vitriol there that isn’t quite downright hatred, as if Deucalion knows it could be worse.

He actually looks a little better, Peter realizes, now that the previous clumsy binding has been lifted.  More colour seeping back into his face, the set of his shoulders less severe.  The man flattens a shaky hand over the collar of his shirt like he’s smoothing out the wrinkles, but his gaze is turned inward, no doubt feeling the unyielding grip of the new binding now holding him captive.

Peter rakes a vindictive eye over him.  “You can continue on with your life so long as your actions bring no further harm to Cora.”  He pauses.  “Or Derek I suppose.  Directly or indirectly.  Tell no one what happened today; Stiles and I will break that news, I think.  If Scott tells you to do something, pretend to go along with it.  I’m sure you’re used to that already.”

He glances at Stiles.  “Anything else I should add?”

Stiles just yawns, already turning away.  “I don’t really care.  He’s yours now, Peter.  Do what you want with him.”

Peter looks back at Deucalion, who’s a second too slow to drag his own gaze away from Stiles.

It’s Peter who holds his leash now, Cora and Derek too, but – wisely, Peter supposes – Deucalion is still most afraid of the fallen angel in their midst.

Still.  It’s a little annoying.

He flicks a dismissive hand.  “Leave.  Don’t do anything stupid, Deucalion.”

Deucalion makes a harsh noise that could almost be categorized as a laugh if not for the note of hysteria underscoring it.  He doesn’t say anything though, only inclining his head in Peter’s vague direction, and a moment later, he’s gone, disappearing into the trees and heading back to town.

“…You know, we forgot to ask what he was doing in this part of the woods in the first place,” Peter remarks.

Stiles shrugs.  “Checking up on the Nemeton.  He’s one of those idiots who thinks the damn tree can give you power if you get in its good graces.”  He clicks his tongue in disgust.  “Fuck’s sake, let’s go.  I’ve had enough bullshit shovelled at me today to last me the next three decades, and I doubt it’s even close to being over.”

Peter huffs a laugh despite pretty much feeling the exact same way.  Stiles rolls his eyes at him, and they both begin making their way back to civilization.  They walk in companionable silence, and Peter doesn’t break it until they’re on the gravel path leading into town.

“Could we… go see Cora tomorrow?”  Peter asks, recalling quite clearly Stiles’ reaction only yesterday, but after hearing about what happened to her…

Stiles throws him a worryingly unreadable look.  “You can do anything you want, Peter.”

Peter nods.  “But I’d like you to meet her too.”

Wants Stiles to… maybe not _like_ her, but at least understand why Peter is more fixated on her wellbeing when he’s washed his hands of even Derek and his idiocy.  Provided she’s still the same of course.  Ten years and the loss of her old pack _and_ her eyesight is bound to have changed her, but Peter hopes the core of her will still be _her_ , indomitable and tough and as fierce as Peter’s always known she was capable of growing up to be.  But that’s only if life hasn’t broken her, and he isn’t even certain what his reception will be when she sees- _meets_ him again, if she’ll be happy or if Derek and the others will have already poisoned her with all the horror stories they’ve undoubtedly told her about him, and if it’s the latter, then Peter, well, he’ll be disappointed, but he’s used to his family being a perpetual disappointment anyway.  Admittedly however, this one would probably be a harder blow to take.

Beside him, Stiles heaves a sigh that snaps Peter out of his thoughts.  “Fine, we’ll go tomorrow, and you can introduce her to me.”  The angel gives him a hard look only three shades short of withering.  “Now would you drop it?”

He stalks off at slightly faster speeds without waiting for a response, and Peter flinches before picking up his pace as well.  He doesn’t apologize because he knows Stiles hates that, hates the lack of conviction humans seem to have a penchant for, apologizing for wanting something – _“Why bother wanting something if you’re just going to be sorry about it?”_ – but there’s tension between them now, and by the time they get back to their suite, Peter feels jittery with cagey agitation.

It doesn’t help when Stiles ignores him in favour of grabbing a shower and then settling on the couch with a book.  Peter busies himself with fixing dinner; he knows by now when Stiles doesn’t feel like eating so he only plates one portion.  When he takes a seat in the armchair, Stiles still doesn’t look at him, and the pasta suddenly tastes like sawdust going down.

He finishes dinner and grabs his laptop.  Focuses on organizing everything he learned about the Nemeton today and adding it to the new bestiary he’s been compiling over the past couple years.  He’s itching to ask some questions he has, wants clarifications on several points and discussions on a few theories he’s come up with, but he’s also itching to provoke _some_ kind of reaction out of Stiles, and that’s never a good idea, so Peter busies himself with not saying anything to the angel at all and researching a list of creatures that can cause amnesia instead.

Night falls, and Stiles hasn’t said a word to him since they were back in the woods.  Peter’s been rereading the same dozen lines of text on his screen for the past half hour, unable to concentrate, and he almost jumps when Stiles puts his book down and gets to his feet.  Except all the angel does is grab a glass of water before heading into the bedroom.

Peter’s hands go white-knuckled around his laptop for a moment.  Then he saves everything and powers it down, setting it aside before making his usual circuit around the suite.  He knows that for the duration of the angel’s stay, there’s quite possibly no other place on the planet more well-protected than this hotel, but it’s instinct to check the windows and doors every night anyway.

He goes to take a shower, but the pounding waterfall of heat against his shoulders is little comfort so he doesn’t waste any time in there, towelling off briskly before brushing his teeth and then heading to bed as well.  He doesn’t bother pulling on more than a fresh pair of boxers and a shirt.  Some nights he doesn’t wear any clothes to bed at all but he isn’t sure if tonight-

He enters the bedroom and almost sags against the doorframe out of relief when he sees the black blindfold coiled like a snake on his side of the bed.  Stiles is already under the covers but he’s sprawled on his stomach, propped up by his elbows, and there are Enochian symbols bobbing above his fingertips, silver-blue and rearranging themselves every few seconds.  For once though, Peter isn’t interested in taking a closer look.  Instead, he moves into the room and eases onto the bed, glancing once more at Stiles who doesn’t look away from whatever he’s working on, and then he picks up the blindfold – black silk but, Peter knows from experience, it won’t let any light through – and slips it over his eyes, tying it behind him with practiced ease before finally lying down.

There is silence again, except this time is an altogether different kind of silence.  There’s the faint tick of Stiles’ heartbeat in Peter’s ears, almost mechanical, like a clock instead of a living heart, but soothing all the same, the way familiar things are, and he thinks he can almost hear the whisper of sigils gliding through the air under Stiles’ direction, but other than that, there is silence and darkness, and with every passing second, Peter lets himself sink further into it, lets his mind drift, lets go.

But that last gnarl of anxiety – lingering in the restlessness of his limbs against the bedding and the tautness of his shoulder muscles – doesn’t leave him until _finally_ a hand fits itself around the curve of Peter’s throat, a steady, unrelenting pressure that asserts itself and teases at cutting off his air supply, and just like that, Peter goes completely limp against the bed, a quiet noise leaking out of him that’s more breath than sound but nothing more.

These days, Stiles can bring him down so easily.

He thinks he dozes off a little, thoughts like quicksilver sand in his head, all his concerns faded to black, too flimsy to really grasp before they’re gone again.  He stays like that for an indeterminate amount of time, floating somewhere at the center of an endless void, at peace in a way he can’t be anywhere else, or _with_ anyone else.

But then Stiles’ hand disappears, and Peter jerks after it, floundering with a stomach-swooping sort of panic as a whimper trips its way out of his mouth, right up until Stiles fingers tangle in his hair, and the angel sighs, “Calm down.”

Peter immediately settles, but he also turns towards the voice, strains towards it without thought, and only a sharp, warning tug of his hair reels him back in.  Stiles’ hand leaves him again, and Peter has to work to drag some semblance of coherence back into his mind before forcing himself not to move, trembling minutely when he feels Stiles’ touch again, this time sweeping its way down his chest and belly, and distantly, Peter wonders why he wore a shirt to bed.

Perhaps reading his mind, the hand continues its path down past the waistband of his boxers, petting over his soft cock for a moment and coaxing a quiet groan from him before travelling back up and slipping under his shirt.

Stiles never keeps the same body temperature.  Peter doesn’t know if fallen angels in human-lookalike bodies simply exude fluctuating degrees of heat due to anything from the weather to the position of the sun to personal whimsy, but he does know Stiles can sometimes feel like the coolness of stone made pliant by flesh, and other times – like now – he can burn as hot as a furnace in the middle of winter.

Peter feels Stiles’ hand like a mitten fresh out of the oven now, hot enough to _almost_ burn as it tracks the ladder of his ribs one at a time before coming to rest over his stomach.  For another minute, nothing happens.  Stiles doesn’t move his hand, and Peter quivers a little under his palm but otherwise stays still.  And then there’s another sigh, a rustle of sheets, and his shirt disappears before the weight on the bed shifts and the hand leaves, but Peter doesn’t even get to think about panicking again before the length of a body stretches over him, a sinuous rush of heat from shoulders to legs that makes Peter shudder before Stiles’ weight finally settles on top of him.

He still can’t see of course, but that only serves to heighten his other senses, making him almost hypersensitive to the hands circling his neck, the thumbs along the fragile line of his windpipe, even the accidentally-on-purpose grind of Stiles’ cock against his that makes his hips twitch and his arms lift, hands seeking Stiles’ hips, only for something invisible to pin them back against the mattress immediately, a wordless unrelenting demand that Peter is helpless to resist.  Or, well, he can resist.  He can thrash and struggle all he wants – it just won’t do him any good against the weight of Stiles’ power.  Peter still finds himself rubbing up into Stiles as best he can though, anything to get closer to the angel above him.

And then there are lips along his jawline, from chin to the fleshy softness behind his ear before skittering up over his cheekbone to his temple and across the ridge of his forehead before trailing back down again over his other cheek.  When Stiles finally kisses him, Peter’s more than eager to return it, especially when the angel lets him have it, fierce demanding kisses that bruise Peter’s lips and tear muffled moans from his throat and encourage the increasingly desperate rock of his hips against Stiles’.

He isn’t even consciously aware of when he loses his boxers until he feels a hand wrap around his cock, and then his mouth smears away from Stiles’ as he arches, a rough cry at its heels, made ragged by the teeth that immediately sets to marking up his neck.  He bares his throat for it, relishing in the claiming sting scraping along his flesh and the flick of tongue that follows each bite.

He squirms too though, hips bucking in vain.  Stiles’ hand forms a loose circle around his cock, too loose for any kind of friction to bring him off, only allowing sparks of pleasure to dart through him without any of the satisfaction.

A quiet chuckle is pressed against his jawline before he feels Stiles retreat down his body, pausing only briefly for teeth to graze one of his nipples and send shivers rippling beneath his skin before moving on.  A puff of breath is his only warning before lips wrap around his leaking cockhead and _suck_.  Peter releases a strangled shout, hips snapping up again, only for invisible hands to trap that movement too.  Stiles just continues sucking, hard, long draws in a hot mouth accompanied by a wicked tongue that traces the vein running along the underside of Peter’s dick.

The mattress shreds under Peter’s claws and Peter barely notices, too busy trying to shove more of his cock into that wet heat.  He doesn’t get anywhere with that of course, but Stiles hums, a sound full of amusement, and indulges him, lips sliding down, down, down until the angel’s swallowing effortlessly around him because gag reflexes and oxygen are both evidently beneath Stiles.

Hands spread his legs apart until they’re splayed wide, and then fingers drag lightly over Peter’s hole, and Peter finds himself twitching undecidedly between them and the tight clutch of Stiles’ throat, especially when those fingers only tease his perineum, his balls, even tugging occasionally at his rim but never penetrating.  He mumbles _please_ and _Stiles_ with increasing desperation, and just when he’s about to come, Stiles pulls off his cock and squeezes the base to stave off his orgasm just as two slick fingers press into him to brush against his prostate with unerring accuracy.

Peter would’ve jackknifed off the bed if he could.  As it is, all he can do is let out another hoarse cry, writhing as fingers begin working over his prostate and just _don’t let up_.  Stiles won’t let him come either, so the pleasure just builds and builds but he’s never allowed to topple over that final ledge, and Peter’s certain he’ll go mad with it.

“ _Stiles_ ,” He slurs, hands tearing up the bedding, hole clenching around Stiles’ fingers.  “Stiles, please, _pleaseplease, let me-_ ”

Even half out of it, Peter can practically hear the sly curve of Stiles’ grin.

“No,” The angel tells him, mild like he doesn’t have Peter on his back and at his mercy, trapped like prey between his hands.  “Not yet.”

There are four fingers in him, he’s come twice, dry, and he’s been reduced to wordless sobbing by the time Stiles finally relents.  Peter’s hands remain bound to the bed but the weight at his hips lift along with the fingers at the base of his dick, and with one last firm knead over his prostate, Peter’s coming, hard, all over his stomach and chest, his eyes rolling back into his head under the blindfold and all his senses whiting out as his body seizes with wave after wave of pain-gilded pleasure.

Unbidden breathless whimpers trickle from his throat as he comes back to himself, blindfold damp with tears and sweat, and he almost chokes when he feels Stiles shift above him before thrusting into him in one smooth glide.  But he’s slack and spent, and he can only lie there and take it.  It’s too much, he’s all but spasming around Stiles from oversensitivity, and yet at the same time, he loves it, loves the feeling of being stuffed full, loves being owned so completely.

Stiles starts a languid rocking motion that makes Peter groan helplessly when every thrust slides over his prostate and sends more pleasure skittering across his nerves, battling for dominance over his exhaustion.  His cock is soft between their stomachs but he’s vaguely aware of it hardening again, and of the way precome smears between them to mix with the come already drying on his belly every time Stiles moves.  Stiles kisses him again, and Peter immediately parts his lips for the tongue that sweeps in and tangles with his own.  It feels less like Stiles is trying to conquer him this time and more like he’s just enjoying it, lazy and thorough as he licks into Peter’s mouth.

“That’s it, take what you want,” Stiles murmurs against his lips as Peter starts moving in sync with Stiles’ thrusts even though he’s starting to feel more than a little raw.  But he wants it, wants to gorge himself on this, on Stiles, and Stiles is letting him so he does.  In return, the angel takes every whine and hitched breath Peter breathes into him and swallows them down like he means to keep those too, like everything Peter is and everything he has belongs to Stiles.

Peter can live with that.  He’s lived with that for going on four years, and – Stiles willing – he’ll live with it for the rest of his life.  He’s never belonged anywhere, not really, and with Stiles, it isn’t so much _belong_ as it is utterly _consumed_ , but it’s what Peter knows now, what he craves too, and he can’t imagine going back to what he was before.

He comes again minutes later with a tiny, broken sound, this time writhing on Stiles’ cock.  Stiles speeds up, and a few more thrusts later, Peter slumps against the bed and moans as a flood of warmth fills him.

His muscles feel wrung out, his tongue is heavy in his mouth, his limbs even heavier.  He’s not sure if Stiles has removed the bindings tying his arms down yet but he doesn’t bother trying to move them anyway so it hardly matters.  He doesn’t quite black out right away, but everything remains dark since Stiles doesn’t take off the blindfold.  Everything feels distant and fuzzy, and when the angel pulls out so he can manoeuvre them both onto their sides, only to spoon up behind him and tuck his cock back inside him again before pulling the blankets up over their shoulders, Peter’s never been happier.

Lips press against the back of his neck, along the knobs of his spine, over the brand on his neck.

“I,” Stiles says quietly, almost thoughtfully, after a moment.  “Do not like to share.”

 _Share?_   Peter mulls that over hazily before it slips from his mind’s grasp.  He can’t think of anything Stiles is supposed to share.  He can barely think, period.  All he’s really registering right now is the angel at his back, the arms wrapped around him, blankets wrapped around them both, and the two of them curled together on a soft bed.  He certainly doesn’t want to share this, and if Stiles doesn’t want to either, all the better.

“You’re mine,” Stiles continues, whispers it like a secret, or a prayer, like something spoken under midnight stars between forbidden lovers, and it sinks into Peter’s chest like an oath.

Peter dredges up what little strength he has left and presses back into Stiles, flexing briefly around the angel’s cock with a sigh before going lax again.  Stiles hums something like approval and Peter purrs back throatily his own contentment.

He’s Stiles’.  Of course he is.  Who else would he belong to?  Who else does he have?

 _No one_ , is his last thought before sleep drags him under.  _No one but Stiles_.

He drifts off between one breath and the next, slipping easily into sweet oblivion, lying there in the cradle of Stiles’ arms.

He doesn’t feel the smile that Stiles presses into his skin.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up again, he’s naked but clean and dry, and no longer blindfolded.  He stirs, and Stiles is there, sitting up in bed, reading, although he glances over when Peter blinks sleepily up at him.

“Morning,” Stiles greets, disgustingly cheerful for whatever o’clock in the morning it is.

Peter grumbles wordlessly and nuzzles into Stiles’ bare hip instead, comfortably lethargic the way morning afters always are for him with Stiles.

Stiles snorts with fond amusement before running fingers through Peter’s hair.  “It’s already eleven.  If you wanna go out today, you’re gonna have to get up sometime.”

Peter burrows further into the bed.  “We could stay in.  We don’t _have_ to go out.”

Stiles gives his hair a gentle tug.  “Didn’t you say you wanted to go visit your niece?”

Peter thinks about that for a moment before shrugging lazily.  “Later.”

He’s too comfortable right now.  And Stiles was upset yesterday but he isn’t anymore, and Peter likes lingering in Stiles’ good mood.  He isn’t sure if he’s just imagining it but sometimes, it’s like Stiles is exuding sunlight, and Peter loves basking in it.

Above him, Stiles just chuckles and doesn’t ask again.  He produces a glass of water for Peter instead, and Peter guzzles that down greedily before curling back up against Stiles.  The angel goes back to reading his book, and Peter is soon lulled to sleep again by the fingers combing through his hair and the occasional rustle of a turning page.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**
> 
> **(if possible, I'd love to get some feedback on the sex scene)**


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